


somebody’s shouting that the world’s going to hell

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Consequences of war, Drama, Espionage, Eventual Poe Dameron/Finn, M/M, Minor Character Death, Plotty, Post-Movie(s), References to Suicide Pill, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5844127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Not really? Even going into the military, I just thought piloting would be a career. A couple of promotions. Retirement on Yavin IV at the end of it, maybe join a civilian outfit after,” Poe admits. “Hell, I patrolled for pirates in the Mirrin sector before this. I didn’t know I’d end up fighting a war. A <i>real</i> war.” His tone wavers, ponderous. “I mean, sure. We all knew it was a possibility—not that the Republic would admit as much. But I was what? Twenty when I joined up? Nineteen? What the kriff did I know?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from “Danger” by Twin Forks.

The woman sits across from Poe the way she does everything—with intense disdain for everyone around her. Sniffing, she crosses her arms, eyebrows arching high on her forehead. She glares at the nearest person to show an interest. Who, in this case, happens to be Poe. Through the smoky haze of the bar, her blue skin looks almost purple, her eyes, muddy rather than green. Smudges of yellow dash across her cheeks and forehead, but they’re colorless under the dim light above the booth.

He scratches at the growth of beard along his jaw, the coarse hair rasping under his thumb. Pushing against the grain only makes the itching worse, but that’s never stopped him from doing it before. Maybe one day he’ll get used to it. Today, however, is not that day.

“You changed your hair,” he says, leaning against the grimy, ancient wood of the table between them. He knows better than to think about what it might be grimy with and whether it’s been cleaned since its manufacturing date. Ducking forward, he adds, “It’s a good look on you, Lha Karani Sik.”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself,” she replies, cool. Her fingers brush against the quarter-inch of fuzz covering most of her scalp. A red welt stands out against her right temple, curves down and around the side of her head toward the base of her skull, barely healed. It’s going to be a long time before her hair grows back there. If it ever does.

The funny thing is, though, Poe’s not joking. She does look good, fierce and full of life. Older and wiser and a little bit more dangerous than the last time they saw each other. And when he flicks his attention to his right, he sees he’s not the only one who’s noticed. A fair number of patrons show their admiration with less-than-discrete looks from the corner of their eyes or eyestalks or whatever visual appendages they might have. A few others turn away, stricken with fear or worry.

Stretching against the back of the booth, he gestures expansively, good-humored. “That _is_ what I’m best at.” He pushes a short, fat tumbler toward her. The liquid inside glows a faint white, rocks back and forth against the glass during the journey across the table. A little of it sloshes onto the table and Poe’s not above wincing at the waste. “But it’s gonna have to wait.”

“That’s the problem with you Resistance types,” she says. Lifting the glass to her nose, she verifies for herself that Poe’s spent nearly half of his stipend to ensure her a decent slug of _kethervina_. Like this is the thing he’d skimp on. Like she doesn’t know him at all. Maybe even like she doesn’t trust him. “All you do is wait. Wait and wait and—”

“Some things are _worth_ the wait,” Poe answers, affable, while his hands tighten into fists beneath the table and his temples throb in time with his blood.

The dry, oppressive scent of cigarra smoke clings to his lungs, makes him long for the pack resting near his heart. _Verisimilitude_ , General Organa had said before he’d approached Lha Karani the first time. _A filthy habit_ , he’d shot back, snatching that original box from her.

“—nothing gets done,” she finishes, finally sipping, a pleased, smug smile dancing across her mouth once she swallows. “But I do so enjoy extorting liquor from you so perhaps I oughtn’t complain. Tell me, does your general reimburse you for the cost of it when you get back to your little base?”

“I wouldn’t call Starkiller nothing, Lha’ka.” _And no, General Organa doesn’t know about the_ kethervina.

“Old news.” She snaps her fingers and holds out her palm until he fishes the cigarras from his shirt pocket and taps one of the slim paper cylinders into her waiting hand. Twirling the stick in a manner born of habitual smokers the galaxy over, she holds it out for him to light. Brings it to her mouth and puffs a couple of times. Her distaste is evident in the wrinkling of her nose. “What have you done for the galaxy lately?”

 _Not a whole damned lot._ He lights one for himself, taking a moment’s respite from _that_ sad thought, sucks down the searing smoke like he’s just another patron looking for a night away from their troubles. A buzz of energy surges through him, there and gone with every tainted inhalation.

The pack falls carelessly to the table with a thwack, square between the both of them. “We’re doing what we can.”

Pursing her lips, she blows a mouthful of smoke at him. Most of it billows harmlessly and dissipates. Only the dirty, burning scent reaches him, prickling at his nose, a potent mix of chemicals and cheap tabac. He smiles tightly before volleying a target’s worth of rings at her in retaliation. The shapes undulate between them until she chops through them with an impatient wave of her hand. “Then you are aware the First Order has taken a special interest in the Velennian Cluster, hmm?”

It’s only the years of training that stop him from blurting out the first though that comes to mind. Stops him from pushing himself forward and grabbing her by her collar, a demand for answers on his lips. “We’ve heard some chatter.”

She snorts, but doesn’t contradict his lie. Stabbing her cigarra against the tabletop, she picks up the pack and plucks a fresh one from it. “Got the information out of a couple of Stormies. Turns out they’re very, very talkative under the right circumstances. How much is that loquaciousness worth to you?”

A thin wisp of smoke drifts toward the ceiling from the mashed cigarra stub.

“You’re so full of shit,” Poe answers, laughing emptily. This is the game they always play. He doesn’t even need to be here to know his lines. Which happens to be a good thing. Keeping his stomach from rebelling requires half of his attention as it is, maybe more if she ends up insisting he drink something. “When Stormtroopers talk, you’re not gonna hear anything worth knowing. Everyone knows that. You get the same deal we’ve always given you.”

“I want two.” She taps at the spot just above her wound. “I was injured, you know.”

“No, Lha’ka.” He’s authorized to give her three. “One month free reign on our hyperspace lanes, no more. You wouldn’t be here if whatever you know was worth more than that anywhere else.”

“Stingy. Those Stormie blasters aren’t a joke.”

“Prudent. And I know more than enough about ‘Stormie’ blasters. You’ll live. Just like the rest of us.” He quirks a smile at her. Stretching his arm, he flicks ash into the ashtray that’s been next to her elbow this whole time. “Besides, I’d miss our chats. Wouldn’t you?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She sighs, shifting as she reaches for something tied to her belt. Her cigarra hangs from her mouth, angled downward, a danger to her lap, but one she ignores. She drops a small leather bag in the middle of the table where it falls with a clunk. The top, roped closed with a long piece of twine, flops over, almost sad. She retrieves the cigarra from between her lips with all the fluidity of a con-artist performing a trick. Smiles with a flourish before adding a datachit to the haul. “Fine. One month, yes? No questions?”

“So long as you’re not ferrying First Order troops across our backyard,” he says, grabbing the bag. Cupping it in his palm, he pokes around inside, fingers finding cool, smooth-edged stones. Three of them all clacking against one another. “Or giving me rocks. What is this?” He pulls one out, twists his body to shield the object from unwanted scrutiny, turns it this way and that at hip level. It glints and winks a pathetic, watery blue. Nothing Poe would give a second thought to under normal circumstances. “A crystal?”

“Something like that,” she answers, vague. Troubled. She—as much as Poe—hates not knowing something. “One of the bucketheads had them on her. She couldn’t tell me why.”

“Couldn’t?” He stuffs the crystal back into the bag and shoves the whole package into a pocket inside his jacket. The chit he picks up between two fingers, slips it into a slot on his own belt. ”Or wouldn’t?”

“Couldn’t.” Grim, prideful, she adds, “I did everything within my power to check. Her programming was exquisite.”

Poe’s mind whirls with the possibilities, fruitlessly running through each and every one he can think of. Weapons would be his first guess normally. But perhaps these are merely valuable. He won’t touch the rest of what she’s said. “Must be important.”

“Must be.”

“And that’s where they found these things?” His hand dances in the air, sketches, he supposes, the vague shape of the galaxy. “The Vellenian Cluster?”

She shrugs, rubs up and down her bicep, stares at the ceiling. Her voice, when she speaks, is filled with resentment, her jaw tense. “That’s where they found us. Who knows where they got those things.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“Volunteering to save the orphans. Why else would we possibly be there?”

“I can think of a few reasons.” Drugs. Weapons. Illegal droids. Even more illegal luxury goods. Lha Karani discriminates against few things, particularly if they’re portable. As much as Poe might hate it, her lack of discernment has benefited the Resistance in too many ways to count. He has no right to judge.

She smirks at him, well aware of the fact, too.

Damn her.

From the same pocket he’d pulled the cigarras, he retrieves a datachit of his own. “Any ship but yours tries to use that security code, I’ll be taking it into custody personally. You’ve got your clearance starting now and one Republic-standard month to do your business. If your intel is wrong or misleading in any way, General Organa will revoke the privilege.” Adrenaline surges through his body, jangling his nerves to hell and back. It’s always his least favorite part, handing over the keys to the kingdom. A controlled crash without a ‘chute would be preferable. He pushes himself to his feet. ”Take care of yourself, Lha’ka.”

“Yes, yes.” She lifts the pack of cigarras, twitching it back and forth in demonstration. “What about these?”

“Keep ‘em. They’re not really my brand anyway.” He takes a couple of heavy steps toward the door. As he retreats, the weight of this meeting sloughs from his shoulders and he begins to feel just that little bit more normal. Like fighting off the remnants of a viral infection. Or completing the latest round of condolence letters knowing he won’t have to do it again right away.

“Hey, Lesz?” she calls, her voice mingling with the low din of chatter that fills the room. Poe almost doesn’t stop, thinking, for one moment, that she’s talking to someone else. He only half turns when he remembers. “Tell your general next time she should send that hero pilot of hers. Poe Dameron? I’d like to ask him how he keeps evading the First Order when there’s such a nice, big price on his head.”

He closes his eyes, counts out three heartbeats. “I’ll pass your suggestion along,” he answers, jamming his hands into his pockets. Hunching up, he ignores the handful of people who perk up at the sound of his name coming out of Lha’ka’s over-loud mouth. Even in Resistance strongholds like this one, places where anyone who works for General Organa is a hero, it has an effect he can’t understand. They murmur in sharp tones that Poe can’t pick out, but lapse into drunken, bored stupors again almost as quickly. Of course Poe Dameron wouldn’t show up in a backwater dive. Only a fool would think otherwise.

“Maybe that defective Stormie, too, eh?” she yells, compounding the anger unfolding in his stomach. The clinging warmth of the bar presses against him, alive and hungry, a creature in its own right. His hands squeeze into fists again, slivers of pain radiating up his palms as his nails dig into his skin. His breath fights its way out of his chest in deep, ragged bursts. The thought of bringing Finn here…

Stalking his way outside, he drags in a cold, sharp breath, hands shaking as he frees them from his pockets. The need to hit something doesn’t register until he’s already struck the duracrete wall next to him. The rough texture scrapes his knuckles, chews through a layer of skin. He doesn’t lash out a second time, but he stands there for a long time, panting. It’s not until he sees the blood on the back of his hand that his stupor breaks.

It hurts, but for a few minutes he feels better, too, clearer. Each shard of pain distracts him from his roiling thoughts, the weight of Lha’ka’s crystals in his pocket, her words. So many words. Visit upon visit’s worth of them. He can’t check the chit until he gets back to his transport, but hope flickers to life in his chest, fluttering around his ribcage, too quick to quash immediately. This time, his hope tells him, they’ll finally have that one thing they need to tip the scales in their favor. This time, it tells him, they’ve got Hux and Ren and Captain Force-damned Phasma. It doesn’t really matter that it’s probably just patrol schedules, troop numbers, maybe a duty roster if they’re lucky—the same old intel for a different system. His heart always reacts to the contrary.

Whether he _actually_ believes a panacea like that exists anymore is entirely beside the point.

It’s not going to stop him from fighting either way.


	2. Chapter 2

The ‘fresher sink holds Poe’s weight as he leans toward the medicine cabinet, cool and smooth against his palm. From the mirror, an unfamiliar face stares back at him, as unexpected now as it had been the first time and the second and every time after that. It’s funny what a slight change in appearance will do to you. Dark blue eyes tinted by false lenses. The bridge of a crooked nose smashed by the wrong end of a blaster during a ‘skirmish’ on Corvalla.

That damned beard.

He’d like to shave, but the prosthetic between his eyes weirds him out the most. Always has. Probably always will. It goes first. Every time, the ritual now beyond change, ossified. Nose. Shave. The false lenses.

He’s never even set foot on Corvalla. Not that you’d be able to tell. If asked, there’s a ready story on his lips about the event. One he’s happy to tell.

Peeling the synthskin away, he flings it into the scratched chrome of the sink. It curls a few inches from the drain, lifeless, too much—and too little—like real skin. The adhesive scrubs away with the touch of his fingers, sticks to his fingertips and under his nails. He’s got a bottle of remover somewhere around here, but it makes his eyes water and redden. Leaves him feeling vulnerable. He stopped using it after the first time, when he’d had to give his report, embarrassed and exposed and raw.

When he looks in the mirror now, he feels like himself. All the usual pieces in all the right places. Whether that’s a good or bad thing, he couldn’t say.

The cabinet squeals as he yanks it open, creaking on rusted hinges. At one time, he’d planned on doing something about that. Just pull the whole thing down and clean or replace the hardware. Back then he’d planned to do a lot of things. Reaching for the vibrorazor, he hears someone— _Finn_ , who else?—clearing his throat behind him.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, closing the cabinet, eyes already intent on catching Finn’s in the mirror. He knows just where to look to find them. He always knows where to look. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t knock.” Finn’s shoulder rests against the doorframe, his legs crossed at the ankles. Unlike Poe’s uniform, Finn’s makes crisp, sharp lines out of his body. ”You never hear it when I do.”

“Yeah,” Poe says, scraping a hand through his hair to break up the gel slicking it in place, the hold tenuous. There’s not a product on this lousy planet that keeps them down for long. When he’s out on assignment, he has to work at keeping that particular tick under control. The rest of the time, Poe can’t say it’s a bad thing he’s stopped caring. “Sorry about that.”

“I don’t remember mentioning it was a problem,” Finn says, gentle and curious, tilting his head to one side. He jerks his chin in Poe’s direction. “You’re letting the beard go already, huh? Word around the base is it makes you look ‘distinguished.’”

“That means they think I look old.” He scrunches his nose, the skin still tight from the glue he’d used on it. Considering the number of gray hairs dusting his jawline, it’s not like he can say they’re _wrong_. “But, hey. At least they’re being respectful about it, right?”

A small, private smile quirks at the corners of Finn’s mouth. But it’s his eyes crinkling that gets under Poe’s skin and squirms around in his stomach—not so hard to ignore as one would think considering all the practice he’s gotten. “No, I think they mean distinguished,” Finn replies, warm. “But by all means, save them the trouble of doing you the compliment.”

“I’m gonna,” he says, picking up the razor. The single, straight blade hums when he flicks the button on the handle. Soothing, in a strange way. He turns toward the mirror, lifts the blade to his neck, relieved to be ridding himself of this one irritation. “Nobody needs to do my vanity any favors. I’m telling you, it’s for their own good.”

“I guess we’re just gonna have to suffer a little longer then,” he says, deadpan, frowning in mock sympathy. “General Organa’s waiting for you.”

“I’m sure she’d be willing to sacrifice a few minutes of her time for this great struggle against my ego.” But Poe sighs anyway, regretful, because it’s not really true. There _hasn’t_ been much time lately for taking a few minutes to do _anything_. And better his time gets chewed up than hers. Setting the razor down, he centers it on the wide lip of the sink. Fidgets with it one final time before turning toward Finn. “Well, let’s get on with it, then. No time like the present, am I right?”

*

Three sets of eyes lock onto his hip as soon as he steps into the general’s office. Which is flattering. Really. But highly unusual considering those eyes belong to Leia Organa, Rey, and Luke Skywalker. None of whom are particularly known for ogling and certainly not for ogling Poe.

“So it is you,” the general says, voice drier than the air on Jakku. “I thought we had a _srethe_ running around here somewhere. I was just about started taking bets on it and everything.”

Poe boggles, pats himself down, and boggles again. Hopes this isn’t like that time some guy in a bar had insulted him in Bocce. For over an hour. Without him knowing it. Because he doesn’t speak Bocce and he’d just thought the guy was being friendly. “I don’t know what that means,” he says, blinking. When Luke takes a step toward him, he instinctively takes one back. Right into Finn, whose hand lifts to hover at Poe’s elbow. Finn shuffles to the side, far enough to give him space, but not so far that Poe can’t still feel Finn’s warmth along the length of his arm. “Any of it. What’s a _srethe_?”

The word doesn’t sound quite right coming out of his mouth, leans too heavily on the first syllable.

“It means,” Luke says, using the Force to remove the leather bag from Poe’s belt, “you’re the Force’s own flashpoint and we noticed.”

Poe scowls, unimpressed, and receives a benign smile from Luke for his trouble. “Things are much clearer for me now, thank you,” he can’t help saying, unable to miss the way Rey’s lips flatten as she bites back a smile. And when she realizes he’s caught her—her eyes widening, her hand lifting to cover the evidence—he winks. Just to see her roll her eyes at him in return. “I don’t think that’s what it means,” he mouths at her.

Luke steps back, opens the bag and peers inside, ignores Poe with more ease than Poe’s entirely comfortable with. The question of why Luke had moved at all crosses Poe’s mind. Then, a few seconds later, Luke murmurs, “You’re welcome,” like he’s not even in the same system as the rest of them anymore and his comm’s working on a delay. Seems like every time Luke Skywalker is nearby, he gives Poe a whole new set of questions to consider. Most of them concerning just how often Luke does his thing just to frustrate Poe.

“Why’d you even—” Poe asks.

The general rounds her desk, strides toward her brother, cuts Poe off before he can make an ass of himself. “Let me see those,” she says, taking the bag from him without so much as a by-your-leave. She pours them into her hand, shifts her palm under the light. They share a look, communicating with each other through something more mystical than words. Whether it’s the Force or their bond as siblings, Poe can’t say. He’d give even odds to either option. And one isn’t any more interesting to him than the other. Or, rather, they’re equally strange concepts to him, a man who has neither the Force nor a sibling to try it with.

“What do you think, Rey?” Luke asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, taking one of the crystals from the general’s hand. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It feels… alive almost? But it’s not.” She shakes her head and grumbles to herself. “It’s like listening to an echo.” She doesn’t glare up at Luke, presumably for putting her on the spot, but Poe can definitely tell that she wants to. Doesn’t take the Force to sense _that much_ at least.

Finn nudges Poe in the side and speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “You ever get the feeling we’re missing out on, like, half the universe when they’re like this?”

Poe laughs, almost huffy. Tries to cover it with a cough. “I’m pretty sure we’re missing out on _way_ more than half.” He narrows his eyes, studies Finn as Finn watches Rey while the three of them discuss the crystals. “Does it bother you?”

“Sorta,” he admits, shrugging his shoulder. “Maybe? I don’t know. It’s kind of cool, you know? But it’s a lot of responsibility, too, right?” He wiggles his fingers in demonstration. “It’s hard enough being a good person when you _don’t_ have the dark side out there tempting you.”

Poe nods, sage, maybe a little prickish. “Might get full marks on the range with it though.”

But Finn doesn’t bite. He never bites. Always stays even-toned when Poe tries to get him going. It’s maddening and endearing all at once, like he doesn’t notice what Poe’s doing. “Please, I get full marks plenty often _without_ it. You’re the one who can’t beat Pava on that fighter jock obstacle course she set up. Maybe _you_ need the Force.”

It sounds so very reasonable—and so very, very wrong—when Finn puts it like that, his tone entirely neutral.

This can’t be allowed to stand uncontested. Poe’s sense of pride won’t allow it. “Hey! I’ve got every other base flying record out there. Just because she _rigged_ it—”

“Mmhmm.”

“—and I don’t have the time to _drill_ anymore—”

“Keep going. She’s gonna love hearing all these excuses when I tell her about ‘em later.”

“That hurts me, Finn. It really does.” He taps his chest with his index finger. “Right where I live.”

It’s only when Finn’s attention snaps to his knuckles that he realizes his mistake. Caught off guard, he doesn’t try to hide his hand exactly, but he drops it rather more quickly than he might otherwise have done. Clearing his throat, he speaks with more lightness than he feels. “I’ll have yo—”

“If you’re both done?” the general asks, crossing her arms as she sits on the edge of her desk. Her eyes move back and forth between them both, perhaps amused, perhaps not. Poe pretends he’s not relieved for the distraction and instead feels an empty, yawning ache behind his sternum for being glad at all.

He does the only thing he can think to do. Straightening up, he snaps off a crisp salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Poe, it brings me so much joy that you think I might still buy the ‘respectful subordinate’ act,” she answers. “Makes me feel young and naïve all over again. But maybe would you mind telling me what was on Lha Karani’s chit? Or should I go through the trouble of analyzing it myself?”

“It’s the same old, General.” Pushing his thumb against his temple, he adds, more serious, “A light cruiser. A couple of AALs. No capital ships.” He glances at her, but looks away quickly. “No _Upsilon_ -class shuttles either so far as I can tell from the data.” Which is just as well. If there _was_ word anywhere about the whereabouts of her son, she’d be devastated. And Poe would have to do something stupid. Like drag his ass back here so she can have closure or justice or whatever it is she needs from him. “Thirty to fifty troops on the ground by Lha Karani’s estimates. No special forces. No reason to be there except for these—” He indicates the crystals with a waffling flip of his hand. “—things. The Velennian Cluster has no military value, no outstanding resources, and no inhabitants to subjugate. It wouldn’t even strengthen their supply lines if they decided to set up camp.”

The general’s focus shifts to Finn. “And what’s your opinion?”

Finn nods, serious, and purses his lip for a moment. He never answers right away, not when it’s the general’s asking him a question. No. He always gives her his most measured response. “I’d say General Hux is being pressured to commit resources. Thirty to fifty troops sounds about right. I’d put credits on it being an even forty.”

“Why?”

Another pause. “No point sending an AAL to the ground if it’s not full. Forty ground troops and space support sounds like more than enough trouble, but we all know what he’s like when he commits.” The annihilation of the Hosnian system hangs in the air between them, a specter under which they continue to struggle, the ramifications rippling still after all this time.

Poe wonders if he’ll live to see the day when that moment of destruction _doesn’t_ loom over every action he’s forced to take. It sits in the back of his mind, a long and omnipresent shadow determined to darken everything it touches. There’s no point imagining what the galaxy would look like if it hadn’t happened. Even his subconscious has given up conjuring the possibility of peacetime while he sleeps.

“And what if Ren wanted it?” she asks to the sound of absolute, dead silence. Where others tiptoe around his name, she doesn’t falter.

Finn swallows, turns his head, but doesn’t quite look at Poe. Holds his own anyway. “In that case, Hux would send nothing if he could get away with it. The Supreme Leader would have had to intervene.”

“Is that likely?”

“It’s not unlikely,” he replies. He grimaces thoughtfully, but just as he’s about to speak again, the door chime trills, urgent.

General Organa lifts her hand to stop Finn from continuing, leans toward her desk, finds the access button.

The door slides open and Lieutenant Connix slips inside, a datapad in hand. Cheerless, she acknowledges no one, striding toward the general with single-minded purpose. Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet, but not quiet enough. “It’s Eriadu, ma’am.”

The general speaks at normal volume. “What about it?”

Connix glances back at Poe and Finn, turns and offers the same inspection of Rey. She doesn’t, oddly, show any sign of caring that Luke’s there, too.

“Go on, Lieutenant,” the general says, nodding her consent.

“The governor has openly declared support for the First Order, ma’am.” She looks down at the pad and it’s only then that Poe notices her hands are shaking despite the firmness in her voice. “And intends to execute twenty Resistance sympathizers in the capital to send a message about ‘appropriate diplomatic ties with allied planets.’”

Poe steps forward, yanks the pad out of Connix’s grip, flicking through the report with trembling hands of his own. She doesn’t fight him for it, but if eyes were blasters, he’d be dead right now. He can’t bring himself to care. “Who’d we send?” he asks. The general then tears the pad out of Poe’s hand and tosses it aside. “General.”

The general’s rage is clear in the downward slope of her shoulders, the focused way she stares at the floor, the long, slow press of silence against all corners of the room as she doesn’t answer him. And continues to not answer him.

So, of course, Poe presses his luck.

“We sent _someone_. Eriadu wouldn’t _have_ Resistance sympathizers if we didn’t.” Resistance personnel come and go from this base so often, Poe can’t even narrow it down. “Force, that was an Imperial stronghold during the rebellion. They were only nominally affiliated with the New Republic to begin with. Their loyalty was always tenuous at best…”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“With all due respect, General, I don’t know what to think.” _They still celebrate Grand Moff Tarkin’s contributions to galactic peace on his birthday; that was his_ home world. Poe grits his teeth to keep from saying the rest of what he’s thinking. _There is nothing on Eriadu worth this, not its resources, not its trade routes._ He looks back at Finn, who’s determination matches Poe’s feelings on the matter. They’ve got this and Finn suggests as much to him with a short, simple nod. Gives Poe the go ahead. “It doesn’t matter. Finn and I can get in there and get ‘em out, no problem.”

“And what do you think Governor Klathan will do if I let you go and you get caught?” She stares him down, dubious. “Execute another twenty Resistance sympathizers when she finds another unauthorized operation within her borders? Execute _you_? Maybe turn you over to her brand new First Order comrades? That’d be worth something, I bet.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ll go,” Rey says, half raising her hand. “I’ll go with them.” She looks up at Luke and shrugs. “I’m pretty good at getting into and out of jams unnoticed.”

“That’s very generous of you,” General Organa answers, firm, not a single hint of appreciation for Rey’s pluck in her tone. “But no.”

“General, please,” Poe says, well aware he owes Rey his gratitude. Another time, he’ll give it to her. “We _can_ do this. Those people don’t deserve to die because—”

“Because I messed up?” she asks, mostly rhetorical, a world of emotion behind it. So much that Poe can’t even begin to parse all of it. Luke is about the only one of them who can keep his eyes on her. Even Rey turns aside, grimacing. He can’t imagine what they’re all sensing from one another. It’s bad enough being on this side of it, barred from the Force as he is. ”You’re not going. No one is going.” She tosses the bag of crystals at Poe, expecting him to catch them. Which he does, hands confident though the rest of him is far from it. ”My son wants these. And I want to know why. _Those people_ are on their own, Force guide them.

“Connix, tell Statura and Ackbar I want to see them immediately.”

Connix bobs her head and reaches for the pad with ginger, searching fingers, tucks it against her chest. When she turns, her face is a tempered maelstrom of emotions, all the more devastating for the pretense of composure. Poe can sympathize.

“General, you’re making—” Poe stops speaking as Connix passes him. He waits until she’s gone to speak again, aware he’s butting up against a line he’s not sure he can cross. “This is a mistake. We might as well still be with the Republic Navy if we turn our backs on them like this.”

“That’s quite enough of that,” Luke says, quiet, “ _Commander_.”

“Your objection is noted,” the general says. Her eyes, already hard, harden even more—turn to plasteel, not a trace of brittleness in them. “Unless you want a reprimand, you will stop objecting. File a formal complaint if it’ll make you feel better, but I will not budge on this. You have your orders.”

Every inch of Poe’s body insists he protest, insists he throw down a gauntlet, issue an ultimatum. Force her hand. It’s the same impulse that brought him to the Resistance in the first place. Throwing down _that_ gauntlet, not taking _that_ no for an answer, had been the best decision he’s ever made. But he can’t do that here, he knows that. No matter how much he wants to. There’s nothing right about this situation, but disobeying the general would definitely be wrong. Definitely.

Fuming, Poe crosses his arms, the urge to toss off another salute, sarcastic this time, almost too much to resist. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re dismissed.”

With that, Poe pushes past Finn, stalks out of the general’s office, sick with anger. His palm aches where he grips the crystals too tightly. Finn calls his name, but Poe can’t hear more than the shape of it over the sound of his heart pounding war drums throughout his body. And he can’t stop because he’s not sure he won’t go back in there and burn his reputation with the general to the ground.

He’s not stupid enough to believe he’s irreplacable. General Organa accepts a high degree of latitude from her subordinates. But even that has its limits.

Still, this isn’t what the Resistance is. This isn’t what they _do_.

“Poe,” Finn says, fingers wrenching him to a halt by his bicep, “wait.”

“No.” Poe jerks out of his grasp. “Didn’t you hear, Finn? I’ve got _orders_.”

And maybe because Finn’s got no good answer for him, no response that’ll make this _right_ , he doesn’t stop Poe from walking away.


	3. Chapter 3

As far as X-wings go, the T-65BR looks like it’s been geared up with a myostim unit and left to muscle up in its spare time. Big, wrought with every hook, clip, and doodad a person could imagine, this particular starfighter looks like an experiment in engineering gone wrong. A cumbersome, ugly, not even remotely cool experiment at that. They fly well given their excess accoutrements. That’s about the best that can be said for them.

Poe hates every last one he’s ever come across. If they weren’t so useful, he’d ban them from his airfield out of spite. As it is, they only have the one. And the general wouldn’t be happy if he rid the base of it.

“Stop glaring at her,” Snap says, flicking Poe’s ear as he passes, somehow aware that Poe’s doing just that. And all without seeing his face.

“I’m not,” he insists. Hiked onto his hips, his hands rest against the utility belt slung around his waist. The heavy tools, snapped and pinned and looped into place, tug at his flight suit. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck and wicks into his undershirt. The unseasonable warmth of the day contributes little to his mood and he’s happy enough to blame all of his annoyance on that. “Where’d you even come from anyway?”

“I’m looking for a quarter-inch wrench and you so are,” Snap answers back. “I’m sorry the geniuses at Incom can’t go back in time to imagine a better ship that flies fast, records a lot of data, and doesn’t show up on sensors so that we may one day scrounge one up, but you have to deal with it. They’re brilliant at what they do. Even if they are antiques.”

Poe turns, eyebrows high on his forehead, nods sarcastically. “Are you done?”

“No.” He wrests the spanner from Poe’s belt and steps toward the behemoth. Cooing at the overcompensating X-wing’s body, he carelessly strikes it with the butt end of the tool. Poe’s not sure why he picks that spot and what exactly he’s done, but he seems to think it does the trick. How Snap knows what he’s doing—when he’s not one-hundred percent sure himself—is entirely beyond him. But he’s willing to give Snap the benefit of the doubt. It’s his ship after all; he’d know. “It’s not her fault is all I’m saying.”

“Okay.” Poe throws up his hands. “This is the loveliest hunk of junk on the base and I can’t wait to creep through space in her cockpit. _Now_ are you done?”

“No.” Turning, arms crossed, he stares down at Poe from his superior vantage point, using his height to his advantage. “Why am I—oh.” His attention drifts, skittering across Poe’s left shoulder and toward—something. Behind Poe. Whatever it is makes him tense up though and that interests Poe. He balls his hands into fists and his eyes won’t settle until they find the ground to focus on. “Master Skywalker.”

_Ah_. So much for interesting.

Poe fights the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose and give every other indication that this is not where he wants to be and these aren’t the people he wants to be around. He doesn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t suggest Snap take it easy, that it’s just Luke. He doesn’t even twist and offer a handshake to the new arrival in the hangar.

“At ease, Lieutenant Wexley,” Luke says, reaching Poe’s side far too quickly for Poe’s liking. Despite his words, familiar to subordinate officers the galaxy over, Luke sounds nothing like a military leader. For all Poe knows, he genuinely wants Snap at ease.

Poe inclines his head in acknowledgment, but otherwise says nothing. Hopes if he doesn’t say anything, then Luke won’t want to talk to him. A childish thought maybe, but Poe’s been given to those a lot lately.

“Lieutenant,” Luke says. “Would you mind if I borrowed the commander for a minute?” At the request, dread settles in the pit of Poe’s stomach. It’s not that Poe hates the guy, or dislikes him even, but the respect he ought to feel is a little thin on the ground. Always has been.

“Oh, um,” Snap, the traitor, hands the spanner back and claps his hand on Poe’s arm. There might be a hint of sympathy in his gaze, too. “Sure.”

“You’re off the hook, Snap,” Poe says, resigned,surrendering himself to the knowledge that he can’t escape this conversation. He pulls the wrench Snap’s looking for from his belt and tosses it his way. “You shouldn’t be here while I do the calibrations anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, classified, boss, I got it.” Snap tosses off a sketchy salute and an encouraging smile and wanders away, much to Poe’s envious regret. Would that he could wander away, too.

Both Poe and Luke watch him go, silent until Snap’s little more than an orange blob in the distance.

“You offer your people a lot of latitude,” Luke says finally. Roundabout, neutral.

“They’re disciplined where it counts,” Poe replies, knee-jerk offense kicking him in the gut. These are _his_ people. And Luke hasn’t always been here. He doesn’t know what it was like. Maybe still doesn’t. He spends so much of his time by himself. ”That’s about all I’d want to ask of them.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.”

“No?”

Luke smiles and somehow it’s sadder than it should be, like it ought to be a frown instead. Or tears in his eyes. Not that Poe ever, ever wants to be around if Luke decides to cry. Shrugging, Luke says, “I’m in no position to suggest otherwise, am I?”

Poe swallows, holds his tongue. _There are lines you shouldn’t cross, man._ Then, kriff it, he offers a _reelis_ branch, because why not? The words itch under his skin and there’s no one he can talk with about this. Not his crew, who don’t need their commanding officer’s bullshit dumped on them. Not Rey, who keeps herself going for a purpose greater than the war. Not Finn, who might believe he’s at fault. “That’s okay. I never thought I’d end up in command.”

“No?” Luke replies, purposefully perhaps, mirroring Poe’s own question.

“Not really? Even going into the military, I just thought piloting would be a career. A couple of promotions. Retirement on Yavin IV at the end of it, maybe join a civilian outfit after,” Poe admits. “Hell, I patrolled for pirates in the Mirrin sector before this. I didn’t know I’d end up fighting a war. A _real_ war.” His tone wavers, ponderous. “I mean, sure. We all knew it was a possibility—not that the Republic would admit as much. But I was what? Twenty when I joined up? Nineteen? What the kriff did I know?”

“If you were anything like me at that age,” Luke replies, “not a whole lot.”

Poe nearly laughs, chokes instead on the bitterness of the thought. “Fourteen years later, I’m not sure I know much more than that if I’m being honest.”

“You know more than you think you do.” Luke’s eyes search the sky. Fat, lazy clouds hang motionless against the blue. The sun’s warmth beats down on them, a relentless drone of heat. “But maybe less than you’d like.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Poe runs his hands over his thighs, hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “Look, as nice as this conversation is, I really should—”

“Why don’t I help you?” Luke says, already walking toward Snap’s favorite oversized snoopscoot. “This T-65BR isn’t going to get mission ready all by itself.”

“That’s kind of you,” Poe says, jogging to catch up, not really meaning it, hoping he’ll take the hint. “But I’ve done this—”

“I insist.”

“You insist.” Poe rounds on him, holding his hands up to stop Luke from going any further. “Are you even authorized?”

“Finn, Rey, and I are going as shuttle support, so I’d hope so.”

“Wait—shuttle support? There’s never shuttle support.” Poe grabs Luke by the arm—wonders, for a microsecond, at his own presumption—and pulls him away. Hushed, he continues speaking. “The whole point is one guys goes in and gets out with no one the wiser on the other side. I don’t even need a lift. This thing’s got a robust hyperdrive setup—”

“I know the specs, Commander.”

“Then you know it’s pointless. Bringing a shuttle along is a terrible idea.”

“I know no such thing.”

“Then let me spell it out for you: a shuttle doubles the risk of discovery. For everyone. More than doubles it. Last time I checked, none of our shuttles are certified for reconnaissance missions. Not to mention sticking the only two Jedi around in one tin can that’s venturing into known enemy territory… it’s negligent.”

Luke purses his lips, thoughtful. And for one happy moment, Poe thinks he might have finally won an argument with a Skywalker. “Maybe,” Luke concedes. But then he smiles again and Poe realizes the man’s just not hearing him. Or doesn’t care. Or does hear him and is going to do what he wants anyway. Poe has not, in fact, won anything. And probably never will when it comes to that family.

To add insult to injury, Luke says, blithe, “Why don’t we get that ship of yours in flying shape, hmm? I’ll worry about the shuttle.”

*

“Transponder active,” Poe says, flipping a couple of switches on his dash in quick succession. They feel clumsy under his hand and he has to fight the urge to grimace. “You getting this, shuttle?”

“Loud and clear,” Finn answers, his voice rich even over the encrypted comm relay. It feels intimate listening to him like this. In the dead silence of space, the engines unobtrusively quiet, it’s the only sound there is worth listening to.

“You getting Arsev’s readings?” Poe asks instead of telling him any of the things he’d rather say. Twisting, he looks toward the back of the modified X-wing. Imagines R2-R7 out there transmitting every scrap of data she’s collecting. She bleeps, accusatory, and spits words across the ship’s computer screen. [MY HYPERCOMM TRANSMISSIONS ARE BEING RECEIVED. THANK YOU, COMMANDER.]

Poe laughs, airy, projecting a lack of concern he doesn’t feel. “Scratch that, shuttle. Arsev tells me we’re good to go.”

[THAT IS CORRECT.]

“Well, if _Arsev_ says it’s okay,” Finn answers, serious somewhere under the teasing tone. “We’re receiving. Good luck, Poe.”

Poe doesn’t let himself think too hard about what it will be like if his luck is bad. The purge stick General Organa had given him already sits too heavy in his flight suit’s breast pocket.

“Hey, Finn?” Poe says, a thousand new words ready to release themselves into the distance separating them. He’s not intending to die today, but there’s so much Finn deserves to know—

[LAST HYPERDRIVE JUMP CALCULATED, COMMANDER.]

He wishes he could see Finn’s face. Maybe wishes, selfish, that Finn could be here with him. How Snap performs the lonely business of recon on a regular basis, Poe can’t say. It’s _hard_. So much harder, Poe thinks, than approaching a system-killer, your friends at your back, or taking out TIE fighters in atmo, or even getting into firefights during engagements on the ground.

“Arsev’s all set on this end. Going into radio silence now.” He pauses, hand hovering above his dash, hesitating to kill the comms. “See you on the other side, yeah?”

“I’ll even get the drinks this time.”

Poe grins and shakes his head. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to make promises you’re not gonna keep?”

“No, I’m serious. Drinks on me.”

For one brief, shining moment, his nerves don’t rage simply due to the seriousness of the mission. “All right then. Drinks on you. I’d like that.”

[I WILL HAVE TO RECALCULATE IF WE DELAY ANY LONGER.]

“Finn, I gotta go.” Poe’s stomach swoops, acid churning and rising through his esophagus. “Rendezvous in one Republic-standard hour. Radio silence starting now.

“Ship’s all yours, Arsev.”

[INITIATING AUTOPILOT.]

[TAKING CONTROL FROM HERE, COMMANDER.]

*

At one point, Snap had explained why Poe can’t pilot the T-65BR in live recon mode. At the time, Poe’d claimed he got it. What’s so hard to understand about ‘it’s difficult for people to execute truly random maneuvers and thereby confuse enemy scanners’ and ‘droids are smarter than you at stealth?’ But by the void, it’s _boring_. Sitting around while the droid flies the ship is not, and will never be, Poe’s idea of a good time. Not when it violates every instinct Poe’s cultivated about proper and correct flight behavior.

If it makes him a little bit nervous, too, that’s just his normal reaction to when anyone besides him is driving.

Rationally, he should be enjoying it. Arsev’s doing things Poe couldn’t do even if he wanted to. Course alterations, the precise deployment of sensors, system-wide scanning. She’s doing all of it with laser-pointed accuracy and speed. The ride’s not exactly smooth—she’s jostled him a time or two or ten—but she’s got it handled.

“Any sign of our cruiser?” Poe asks, voice lowered for who knows what reason. It’s not like the First Order is going to hear him if he speaks at a normal volume.

Arsev spits back a course heading. Poe squints in that direction, leaning forward, his shoulders trapped by his harness. Nothing but Velen Prime is visible, a greenish-blue ball still too far away for Arsev’s most important scans. “Can I get some magnification?”

A fuzzy, useless holo projects itself into the space between Poe’s chest and the controls he can’t use. One tiny pinprick of light illuminates the far side of the image. “Any registration on this thing?” he asks, poking at the holo. The pinprick blows up. Fills the projection area. Pushes the planet out of frame. Looks vaguely like a ship.

[ _DISSIDENT-_ CLASS. MANUFACTURING ORIGIN: KUAT DRIVE YARDS. NO REGISTRATION.]

Poe sighs, scratching at his chin, thoughts racing. “Try to get some readings on the hull plating. Maybe we can narrow it down based on composition.” His helmet thumps against his seat and he closes his eyes for five, maybe ten, seconds. “Can I get an ETA on the planetary sweep?”

[THREE MINUTES AND—]

Alarms shriek in Poe’s ears and the tortured sound of metal twisting fills the cockpit. Static squeals through the comms, leaving his ears ringing. He reaches instinctively for the controls, hands curling around the yoke. It jerks in his hand, unresponsive, the plasteel column clicking hard and useless against its casing. “Arsev,” he says, voice raised, “we’ve got a problem here.” The X-wing shakes and tumbles forward, engines gunning in brief, terrifying bursts. “Tell me you’re the one doing that.”

He tries to sound calm— _he_ is _calm_ , he tells himself. Keenly aware that he doesn’t know this ship, he fumbles for the override switch. “Snap, when I get back to base, I’m dumping this ship in a lake, I swear to…

“Damn it, Arsev! I need _something_ out of you, an answer, even a—”

Velen Prime looms, growing closer and closer far too quickly. He has no idea if he’s still got shields, if the cloak is engaged, if Arsev’s still recording and transmitting. He can’t decide which option he’d prefer. A sudden silence back in the shuttle proving nothing? Or almost real-time, up-to-date telemetry telling them his ship is kriffed?

He completes the override sequence. Mashing buttons, turning nobs, flipping switches, he manages to accomplish very little. No engines, no—

The alarms cease. The sudden absence of sound terrifying in a different way.

[RESTART INITIATED. APOLOGIES, COMMANDER.]

Poe swears rather more creatively than he’d care to admit as the ship hums back to life, even, if not quite regular. There’s a discordant note in the sound he doesn’t like at all. “What the hell happened, Arsev?”

[UNKNOWN AT THIS TIME.]

“You’re a recon droid,” Poe says, not willing to admit the flutter in his chest might be a hint of panic setting in. This isn’t like Jakku. It’s nothing at all like Jakku. There’s no one except him and Arsev at risk here. And if they crash, well. Poe’s had a good run. “It’s your job to know. Did we hit something?”

[UNKNOWN AT THIS TIME.]

Clenching his fist, Poe fights the urge to strike the dash. “Give me manual control,” he says, steadier than he feels. In his mind, he thinks, _not again._ He licks his lips and stares down at the planet drifting closer and closer. Despite knowing, _knowing_ their approach is likely a violent one, their trajectory erratic, outside it looks almost calm. Gentle.

Poe’s stomach twists. “Arsev, report.”

[UNABLE TO ACCESS MANUAL CONTROL SWITCH. DETERMINING IDEAL LOCATION FOR LANDING.]

“You can’t— _what_?” He jimmies the controls, slams his palm against the override a second time. Nothing. Not even a sign the button or the yoke is functional. “How likely are we to survive this ‘landing’ with you at the helm? I’m not kidding. I want the controls.”

[THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE. LIKELIHOOD OF SURVIVAL IS INDETERMINATE.]

“Fine.” He blows out a frustrated breath. “Just—don’t set us down in the middle of a First Order camp, all right?”

[DETERMINING IDEAL LOCATION FOR LANDING.]

This time the message flashes a couple of times, an eloquent reminder that Poe’s not the only one stuck in this situation, that maybe he’s not the only one who knows what they’re doing.

“Right,” Poe says, nodding, trying to believe it. “Sure, yeah. Do your thing, Arsev.” He shifts around in his seat and waits, hands gripped around his harness as he stares down at that damned planet below. “These crystals had better be worth it,” he says, hating himself for the powerlessness he feels.

What he’s thinking, though, is _Finn, buddy, just don’t do anything stupid_.


	4. Chapter 4

All things considered, Arsev lands the ship with a surprising amount of finesse. A few bumpy moments along the way are nothing at all in the grand scheme of things. Not when there’s trouble like the kind they’ve had today. Hell, Poe’s done a worse job of it on a routine landing a time or two. “You did good, Arsev.” With nothing worse than a headache and a rapid heartbeat to show for it, Poe can’t say he’s displeased with her performance. “You wanna tell me where we are?”

The holoprojector sputters to life depicting a hovering blue landmass. An even brighter blue dot indicates their location in the lower right-hand quadrant. Intel, at least, if useless intel at the moment. He winces and scrubs at his jaw. “What about the First Order?”

[NO LIFESIGNS DETECTED.]

“Shielding?”

[IF GROUND TROOPS ARE PRESENT, IT IS LIKELY.]

“Useful.” Poe bites the inside of his cheek, stares out the cockpit window at the too-blue sky, almost translucent with how clear it is. His mind clicks through the list of likely possibilities. There may not be a lot of them, but there’s also a lot of risk if he’s wrong.

“Do a scan for large structures—natural or constructed,” he says finally. “Anything that might match Lha Karani’s infor…”

A series of circles pop up across the map projection.

“Okay… that was quick.”

[I HAD ALREADY BEGUN CALCULATING PROBABLE LOCATIONS.]

“Well—that’s… good. Well done. Can you raise Finn on the comms?”

[NEGATIVE. LONG-RANGE COMMS ARE DOWN.]

“Of course they are.” He pulls his datapad from a pocket in his suit, removes the datachip and pushes it into a slit on the side of the projector. “Download a map to the nearest location for me, would you?”

[IT IS OVER NINE KILOMETERS AWAY.]

“Yeah, that’s fine. So _if ground troops are present_ , do you think they noticed our arrival?”

[DOUBTFUL.]

“Okay,” he says, breathing deeply. _We’ve got shielding, too. Arsev’s probably right._ “Thank you, Arsev.”

[YOU’RE WELCOME, COMMANDER.]

[DOWNLOAD COMPLETE.]

*

Poe’s known people—people who’ve seen too much. Their world views change. They come out of it with pieces of their old selves missing—or find themselves with too many. There’s usually something they can’t do anymore or won’t. Fighting isn’t always worth it when you know the true cost.

‘Something’ can mean a lot of different things though. It can mean being unable to fire a blaster anymore. Or being unable to eat or sleep or have a good time without the past clinging to them. Some get by just fine right up until the moment they don’t anymore.

Their mental calculus gets shot up, riddled with singed, ragged holes that don’t heal for a long time. They won’t push when they should or pull away when ordered or sit still when they can. Their perception of good and bad twists and stretches and shrinks back on itself, battered and bruised, forever altered. The big picture might no longer matter. Small gestures may become everything.

Luke’s one of those people.

So even though the protocol in this situation is to deny any involvement, abandon a downed pilot to their fate, hope nothing worse than death awaits them, Poe knows Luke’s not gonna do that. He’s not gonna stop Finn and Rey from trying to reach him—and there’s no doubt in Poe’s mind that they’ll try. He won’t remind them what the purge stick sitting in Poe’s pocket is for and why he has it.

Even though he should.

The ship has been scrubbed of identification. His gear, flight suit, all clean. Nothing here to tie him to the Resistance except his own body. And that, well. He can do something about that. One of the substances inside that purge stick can do a lot of wicked things to a person’s anatomy in a short amount of time.

There will be no true plausible deniability, he knows that, despite any use he might make of the thing. But, he supposes, that rancor’s been out of the cage for a long time anyway. Even if he was an unaffiliated pilot, that bastard, Hux, would still assume he’d been sent by the Resistance and do Force knows what in retaliation.

Poe fishes the purge stick from his suit, taps it against his palm, stares down at the gleaming white cartridge. Tucks it away again, more than a little resentful at its existence all together.

[COMMANDER, PROTOCOL 23.4-B IS TO BE ENACTED AT THE PILOT’S DISCRETION.]

“Quiet, Arsev.” Poe squints out the window of the cockpit. Distant trees and rocky, rugged mountains and a green, verdant meadow stand just outside. It’s beautiful. And peaceful. But he doesn’t want to die in a place he doesn’t know, no matter how beautiful or peaceful it might be. He doesn’t want to die knowing it’ll make Finn and Rey’s and even Luke’s gesture moot. Not if he can help it.

[COMMANDER. IT IS IMPERATIVE.]

“No,” he answers, punching at a button on the dash. The cockpit opens with a hiss and he pushes himself up and out of the confining seat. He looks one last time at the computer, but Arsev says nothing more, the screen blank.

She bleats at him as soon as he swings his leg over the side of the X-wing though.

“Yeah, I get it, Arsev,” he replies. “But you said pilot’s discretion, right?” He registers recrimination in the little red circle she aims in his direction. It’s the only sign she has a visual system in that misshapen dome of hers at all. And it’s not happy.

_Bleeuuuffffffffffffft._

“Well, I’m the one who’s got this damned thing sitting in my pocket,” he says, hopping to the ground. He lands a little awkwardly, the distance unexpected. A dull, not quite painful, throb in his ankle reminds him of his age. “And I’m not ready to use it yet.”

_Bleebooth?_

“Yeah, I promise.” He pulls the helmet from his head and tosses it back into the ship. “Shut the hatch, will you? I’m gonna take a look around.”

Beeping, hesitant, she does as he asks, the cockpit closing slowly. Almost as though she disapproves.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back before sunset.” _That oughta give me a good five hours to get there and back._ “Set up a perimeter. Put out one of the probes, too, if you think it’s safe. I’ve got my comm if you need me.”

With a mechanical sigh, she does as he asks, her compliance slow. A red pulse of light extends across the clearing and shimmers out of existence. If anyone except for Poe steps inside of that now invisible demarcation, Arsev will know. And then Poe will know. And _then_ both Poe and Arsev will be in a lot of trouble that Poe’s not armed to handle.

“And keep an eye out for Luke and the others.”

He’s got his blaster, a glorified toy that’ll shoot a few punches worth of bolts. He’s got a vibroshiv in his boot. And he’s got a couple of microgrenades. But he hadn’t packed expecting to find himself needing protection. Maybe he should have. A full-sized rifle and thermal detonators would be nice to have right about now.

But maybe it’ll be fine, he tells himself. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

*

Poe’s learned a thing or two about ground missions in his time with the Resistance, sometimes against his inclination. Even more often: against his skillset. Ground missions are for the patient, the people with an eye for detail. They’re not for people like Poe, who very much prefer the long-range view, the rush of quick action undertaken instinctively.

As he edges toward the trees, searching for signs of recent occupation, his grip on his blaster is firm, yet easy with practice and familiarity, but awkward all the same. His steps are light. He skirts around bushes and avoids stepping on twigs where he can. He stops every so often and hears only birdsong for his trouble, wonders if someone else could tell more from such mysterious signs.

None of it feels right.

He wishes he’d thought to bring a canister of camotint along. The brown-green flight suit is all well and good— _at least it’s not orange_ , he thinks—but he still feels exposed. Even if the feeling is mostly imaginary. _Slathering camotint on your face won’t help if they’ve got proximity alerts set, Poe_. Still, the extra security would be nice as he traipses up and down the inclines leading toward the First Order camp. Or what Arsev had implied might be their camp.

His grip tightens on his blaster as he draws close to his destination. He steps with a little more caution and care. By the time he makes it to his goal, his legs ache and his blood pumps in furious, too-frequent thuds. His throat’s so dry that it clicks every time he swallows. When he checks his datapad to confirm his location, the thrill of his accomplishment races up his spine. Short-lived as he reminds himself that his _accomplishment_ has lead him to stormtroopers. Maybe.

Climbing one last steep, muddy slope, he reaches the top of a ridge overlooking another clearing. He skulks in the shadows provided by the tall stand of trees around him, crouching low.

Unhooking a small pair of macrobinoculars from his belt, he peers through them. A few footprints in the dirt, trampled grass. Signs of life, but no proof of recent activity or occupation. But it’s the rock formation that interests him. A large, protruding jag of stone that, from this angle, looks like just that. A large, protruding jag of stone.

Skirting around the ridge, he sees that, no, it’s not a stone at all. “Son of a—” he says, shaking his head. An inky black opening greets him, no more occupied than the clearing. “A fragging cave.

“There’s your mystery solved, Arsev,” he adds, displeased. Put enough rock between a living creature and a scanner, they’d never register either. He’s gotta assume there are troopers deeper inside.

He sweeps the area a second time, records visuals for Arsev to analyze later. Pays more attention to the details: indentations in the dirt where crates might have been, a chunk of rock scorched by who knows what. On the far side of the cave entrance, he sees the almost dull glint of what might be one of the AALs, the ship camouflaged by a holotarp set to mimic the surrounding grass and trees.

Poe arches his eyebrow. What’s the point of concealment if you’re not expecting company? Lha’ka’s report had mentioned what she’d seen, but nothing about coming across anyone. They shouldn’t have even known she’d been in the system—according to her at least—and she’d stayed in atmo the whole time. Her cloak should’ve protected her even from the snooping shadow of the cruiser currently in orbit. “What are you up to?” he asks no one in particular, uncertain whether he means the troopers or Lha’ka.

Maybe the answer is both.

The urge to rise out of the underbrush kicks up and down his spine, the need to do something an itch he can’t scratch. He twitches, his fingers clenching around his binoculars. There’s no movement, no sign of anyone. Nothing but that damned troop transport mocking him from across the short, treacherous, distance between him and it. If he could get to it…

Well, there are a lot of things he could do if he got to it. Most of them pointless. Some of them, not. But what’s twenty troopers and an AAL in the grand scheme of things?

What’s twenty of anything in the grand scheme of things?

General Organa has already given him an answer about that. And one he doesn’t like to boot. Not even in this context.

“Don’t do it, you foolish son of a…” Trailing off, he groans and rubs at his eyes, glances up at the sky, still bright, the sun high and hot. There’s still plenty of time before Arsev could even consider worrying about Poe’s whereabouts. He has no excuse not to try.

Not to mention that Finn and the others might need a distraction.

And Poe is very, very good at providing distractions.

That, in the end, decides it for him. If he can protect them from whatever they’re bound to be doing, he’s gotta do it.

The ridge curls in a wide, graceful arc around the mouth of the cave, keeping quite-a-bit-yet-not-nearly-enough space between him and the opening. It’s not the most dangerous thing he’s ever done, sneaking around like this. But it’s probably up there. At least he’s got enough cover that he doesn’t feel like he’s throwing his life away completely.

He stops every handful of steps, peers at the dark, almost fathomless, entrance, squints and adjusts his macrobinoculars hoping this time he’ll see something. A stormtrooper helmet, the glint of a blaster, Kylo kriffing Ren himself. Anything to justify his… concerns. But each time he checks, there’s nothing to see.

If dread settles in his stomach, he pretends he doesn’t notice it. Steps with that much more determination as a combative measure. Proof that he’s got this covered. He can do it.

His awareness, though, spreads to the woods around him, the clearing, the cave. The constant looming presence of it as he bridges the impossibly telescoping distance between him and the AAL. Between one step and the next, the amount of ground he has to cover seems almost to double. Every sound magnifies itself in his ear, every color seems a little brighter. Each movement of a leaf might as well be a bolt of blaster fire for what it does to Poe’s heart. By the time he gets anywhere near the transport, he’s out of breath. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead. His hands shake.

Wrung out, he scans the ground for alarms, the almost invisible sheen of a laser tripwire, even an old-fashioned metal trap. Glancing toward the cave entrance—still nothing, what the hell are they _doing_ in there?—he takes one careful step. Then another.

Nothing happens.

Nothing continues to happen.

Nothing happens even when he grips the edge of the tarp, the surface shimmering in a dizzying array of greens as it attempts to correct for the sudden movement. Slipping beneath it, he holsters his blaster, fumbles for his datapad, and frees a thin cord from a compartment in the side of it. Prying the panel next to the hatch loose, he strips a few of the wires of their protective coating and snaps the opposite end of the cord to the exposed metal.

“Let’s hope this works, huh?” he whispers. Booting up the datapad, he selects a program written specifically for Snap and his recon buddies. One of Finn’s defectors, a young woman who still chooses to go by her designation, is a code slicer of some repute and cooked it up for them. Just in case. Says this particular slice oughta get him into anything below a level eight clearance. It wouldn’t get him far inside a capital ship, nor even the cruiser they’d tracked to here, but this little thing? It should do the trick.

The datapad flashes red.

He tries again, but it fails a second time and a third. Red across the board. “Damn it.” He bangs the datapad against his palm, wiggles the connection. Runs the program.

Red.

Ripping the cord free, he shoves it all back into his suit, barely stopping to secure the pocket. His fingers, trembling, grapple with his belt to unlatch the pouch where he keeps the microgrenades. Small squares primed with the most concentrated explosives at the Resistance’s disposal, they’re hidden inside a chit that can be programmed to blow when any number of factors are met—heat, speed, weight. They’re nasty in a whole lot of different situations.

His eyes scan the back of the AAL, searching for a likely spot, his hand still slipping on the leather at his waist. Even using only one of these little guys, he could wreak a lot of mayhem. Just depends on the spot.

And how much mayhem he wants to cause.

A lot should be the answer.

As much as he can.

He ought to affix one, hell, _all of them_ to the fuel cylinders, the engine, the repulsorlift or the sublight drive. Set the things to blow as soon as the ship is primed for flight. Instead, crouching, he programs a single one to detect motion within a radius of twenty feet. Slips it between the underside of the hatch and the ground. It might not seriously hurt anyone, especially not anyone in armor, but it’ll stop them from going anywhere until they can restore hull integrity.

He gives himself a minute to get out of range before letting it go active.

Then he runs like hell.

*

Bursting through the tree line into the meadow where he’d left Arsev, he’s not sure what to expect. Half of him wonders if he’ll find a platoon of troopers or worse, but—

“Poe!”

Poe’s neck cracks as he turns toward the call from a familiar voice. “Finn!” He lets out a breathless laugh, spares a glance Rey and Luke’s way—they’re both deep in conference with Arsev, quiet, fifty yards away at most—and jogs toward Finn, who’s standing by the shuttle. His hands hold tight to a blaster, a _proper_ blaster, the strap tight across his shoulder and down his back. Poe adds, “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t look nearly as happy to see Poe as Poe is to see him. Which is funny because Poe’s the one who thinks they shouldn’t have come, wishes Finn wasn’t here. Would berate Finn for it, except he’s never _not_ glad to see Finn. No matter the circumstances.

“Where the hell were you?” Finn asks, voice a low rasp. “I thought—Luke said he could sense you, but…” His eyes dart across Poe’s body, inspecting him even as he grabs for Poe, twisting him this way and that. “You’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” Poe answers, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s _okay_. Finn’s okay, too, safe, even though he’s here. And they’ve even got a good chance of getting off of this planet without the First Order being any the wiser. “I’m definitely okay. Not even a scratch. I—”

“Commander, we need your help over here,” Luke calls, a yell that makes Poe twitch with the slap his hand over Luke’s mouth. Despite the optimism coursing through him, he still can’t shake the knowledge that they’re so close to a bunch of troopers.

“Hear that?” he asks, puffing out his chest to ridiculous proportions hoping Finn will laugh. “Luke Skywalker needs my help.”

He claps Finn on the arm, offers an encouraging smile, and slides his arm around Finn’s shoulders, pulling him along. Their hips bump until their strides match up and then it’s a smooth march across the grass. “Guess we oughta go find out what it is, huh? Maybe mark it on a calendar or something.”

Finn’s back tenses under Poe’s arm, the muscles in his neck standing out, strained, his jaw tight. He stares straight ahead, won’t even look at Poe even when Poe nudges him in the side. “Yeah, guess so.”

“You okay, bud?” Despite wanting nothing more than to keep his arm where it is, he lets it slip off Finn’s shoulder, holds it behind his back. Grabs his other wrist to keep him from reaching for Finn a second time.

“Yeah,” Finn answers, nodding sharply, his answer not comforting in the least. A tinge of worry threads through the heady mix of success and luck twisting in his chest. It leaves behind an ache that won’t settle.

“Okay,” Poe says. He rolls his shoulders, sure he would much rather let whatever’s going on with Finn go than cajole him about it. ”Can we, uh, grab a caf when we get back.”

Finn’s head snaps in Poe’s direction, one eyebrow high on his forehead, suspicion writ in the steep arch of it. “I thought I owed you a real drink.”

“Nah.” Poe shakes his head. Caf’s probably the last thing he should be drinking right now, but he needs alcohol even less. For a multitude of reasons. Besides, he’s already wired. Caf’s not really going to hurt him no matter what Doc Kalonia might have to say on the matter.

“Nah,” he says again, ”Caf’s good with me,” and strides forward, eating the last bit of distance between himself and Luke, Rey, and the ship more quickly than he’d intended just a few moments before.

Poe’s suddenly just very ready to get this problem solved and go home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to take this chance to warn for potentially delicate subject matter in this chapter, but I don’t want to spoil it outright in the tags where it would become obvious at this early point to what it’s referring. But if you’d like, I've included a more specific explanation of a content warning in the end notes [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5844127#chapter_5_endnotes). I will say here it’s nothing that would require any of the main archive warning tags, but I don’t want to ruin anyone’s day without offering them the chance to make the decision to proceed for themselves with as much or as little information as makes them comfortable. Thanks so much for your understanding.

“So,” Poe says, approaching Luke and Rey with as game a face as he can manage. It’s probably not much of one, but Poe’s always given points for attempts made as much as for the results generated. Figures he can cut himself at least that much slack. Nodding to Luke and jerking his shoulder back toward the shuttle, he continues, “Looks like you made the right call.”

“My sister made the right call,” he answers, distant, half of his attention on the ship. The wrinkles around his eyes deepen with worry. “I just happened to agree with her.”

“Did your senses tell you I’d get knocked out of space by—” He wags his finger toward the heavens. “—I don’t even know what. Or did you both just expect trouble?”

“You’re a smart man, Commander. And you’ve worked with both of us long enough to know the answer to that question.”

“It was a mine,” Rey offers, holding her hands out as though to hold off a fight. Good thing that’s the last thing Poe actually wants at this point. Tangling with Luke is low on the list of things he wants to do on a good day anyway. Right now, he’d rather do anything else. He’d rather scrub dirty ‘freshers like a recruit fresh off a bout of insubordination than tangle with Luke.

“A mine?” Poe asks as Finn steps up beside Rey. Poe doesn’t quite spare a glance his way, though, as always, he’s incredibly aware of Finn’s presence. It’s hard enough not to be distracted by the coolness radiating off of him. He doesn’t need to see it, too. Poe’ll figure it out later, but it still gnaws at him. More important things now. “The First Order just… mined the atmosphere. Why didn’t Arsev pick it up on her scanners?”

Rey shrugs. “I couldn’t say,” she replies. “All I know is what I saw and felt. They must’ve been set to trigger at the slightest disturbance. It probably saved your life.”

“Right.” Poe crosses his arms. “So what’s the problem then? Other than I’m lucky to have a ship at all.” _A Force-damned mine? Should’ve done way more than knock me out of the sky_. He turns his attention to Arsev. “You did way better than good, Arsev.”

Arsev bleeps, full of pride, yet sorrowful at the same time. Poe knows the feeling.

“It’s not your fault. You got us down in one piece. That’s all that matters. I should’ve seen it, too.”

“That’s not—” Rey stills and her attention flicks in the direction of the cave. Her eyes widen and Poe has just long enough to form a question in his mind before the loud, distant boom of an explosion drowns out sound and thought. For one, two, a few more seconds, the length of a couple of heartbeats, it continues.

He turns, blood pounding in his ears, as a fireball erupts in the sky, black and red and orange and so violently colorful. It could be something out of a holoflick. Flocks of birds take, cawing, to the skies from the many canopies of trees dotting the meadow, upset by the terrifying disruption to their day. Poe’s mouth drops open and his first instinct is to run _toward_ the explosion.

As flaming detritus falls to the earth, a few unlucky trees catch fire, their highest branches sparking and smoking.

Finn lunges for him and catches hold of his flight suit, drags Poe back as he realizes he actually has started running, that his instinct has translated into action. Enough adrenaline rushes through Poe’s body that he could break the hold if he wanted to. But surprise slows his reaction time, kills his urge to fight against the embrace. His body gives in to Finn’s demands rather than his own.

“I don’t think so,” Finn says, pulling him back toward the X-wing.

“What was that?” Rey asks, a hint of fear tinging her words. Her hand hovers at her waist, close to her lightsaber. “Poe?”

“I—” He swallows, eyebrows furrowing, his thoughts a little behind the rest of him. “I found one of the AALs and set a charge. It wasn’t supposed to…” He averts his eyes from the cloud hovering above the site of the explosion, curved like a _leetha_ cap. A light wind distorts the dome-like shape, twisting and elongating it. “It shouldn’t have done that.”

“You found them?” Finn asks, his incredulity clipped, hard-edged. “And you just… snuck past and blew up their transport?”

“There was a cave. Nobody was… I think they were all inside,” Poe says, distantly aware he’s rambling and unable to stop himself. “If they were there at all. I thought I’d disable the ship if anyone happened to come near it. That wasn’t—I set _one_ charge. One charge can’t do that.”

“Apparently it can,” Finn says, transfixed by the rising cloud. “There’s no way that didn’t catch the cruiser’s attention.”

A second, deeper boom thuds, faint, almost as though the sound is moving through the earth rather than the air. A moment later, the ground shakes with disarming force. Somehow, that sickens him even more than the first explosion had.

“Yeah, okay,” Poe answers, nerves jangling. “Arsev and I will meet you back…” He stops as soon as he sees Luke and Rey exchange looks. “… what? You got the ship running, didn’t you?”

It’s only now he realizes he’d expected Rey to do just that. This whole time. He’d been running on that assumption this whole time.

“This ship’s not going anywhere,” she says, remorseful. “There’s not enough fuel to get it out of the atmosphere.”

“Arsev?” Poe asks, striding toward the back of the ship where she’s still in place. She twists her visual system the other way. Maybe so he can’t see her. Or maybe so she doesn’t have to see him.

Arsev’s regretful blip tells Poe everything he needs to know.

“You knew?”

Arsev’s dome twists from side to side and she coos. _Not right away._

“You did what you had to do. I can’t blame you for that,” Poe says, decisive. There’s no point berating her, no point getting angry—at her or himself. Besides, it’s not her fault. “What do you say we get you out of there?”

Rey steps between Poe and the ship, puts her hands up again, this time close enough to touch him. It works as she intends it to. He definitely stops. “Master Luke and I have been trying to get her out. The back of the ship took too much damage, she’s… stuck.”

“Stuck?” he asks, toneless. “What does that mean?”

“It means there must’ve been a lot of heat. She’s welded into place.” She winces and bites her lip and averts her gaze, ashamed maybe.

“So use your Force powers,” Poe insists. He looks at Luke. “You used to lift X-wings with ‘em, right?”

“No,” Luke answers, voice tinged with sadness. “It wasn’t me who did that.”

Rey points out a section of dented hull. “We already tried, Poe.”

“So try again.” Poe’s heart thuds, beats hard against that purge stick sitting in his breast pocket. He shakes his head. “I saw Kylo Ren stop a blaster bolt in midair.” Poe’s gaze rakes its way up and down Luke’s robed body, unimpressed. _You were his teacher. Where’d he learn how to do that if not from you?_ “What’s pulling a droid out of an X-wing compared to that?”

“They’re not magicians, Poe,” Finn says, wholly reasonable.

Arsev trills plaintively, coming to their defense, too.

“No.” Poe shakes his head and crosses his arms, half-turning toward the shuttle. “There’s gotta be a way. Is there anything in the shuttle we could use to get her out? Or even just her memory core?” _We have to do something for her._

“I watched them try for an _hour_. They did what they can,” Finn replies, earnest, mournful. He wouldn’t advocate for this if there was any other option. That doesn’t stop Poe from wanting to ignore him regardless. Whatever anger he feels toward Poe doesn’t stop him from stepping forward, gentle concern in his eyes. His eyes drift toward the pocket where the purge stick is sitting. He opens his mouth to speak—

Arsev lets out a long string of beeps and though it’s clear from the strain on Finn’s face that he’s only catching about half of what she’s saying—there’s not a whole lot of downtime to spend learning binary, though BB-8 has been teaching him in their spare time—he’s gotta be able to tell that she’s vouching for him. That she, too, is pleading for Poe to do his damned job. There’s no mistaking that tone in any language.

_Kriffing recon missions_.

His fingers catch on his pocket, slip inside only begrudgingly. He glares at the ship’s proton torpedos to save himself from having to look at anyone else. Their sympathy and regret threaten to smother him even without him seeing it. Another thing it doesn’t take Force-sensitivity to feel. It itches down his spine, angers him where it doesn’t claw him into pieces.

_It’s not fair._

He has a hard time hanging onto the cartridge, nearly dropping it as he walks toward the ship. A tingling, nagging numbness settles over him. It’s hard enough knowing he’s gonna have to abandon one of his ships here—even if it is the T-65BR—for the First Order to find. Harder still to leave Arsev. Worst? Knowing they’ll poke and prod through Arsev’s circuits after she’s gone, hoping to find something that will betray the Resistance to them. The last thing Arsev could ever want.

Queasy, he pulls free the ladder he hadn’t used earlier, climbs up on its rickety metal rungs as the cockpit hisses open for him. Three pairs of eyes settle on him, discomfiting. He’d rather they look away, return to the shuttle, do anything but _stand there_ and watch him. This shouldn’t—he shouldn’t…

Reaching the top rung, he leans forward and scoops up his helmet. He swings his leg up and over the side of the cockpit and then he’s in, same as always. And not at all the same. “Hey there,” he says, voice reaching for upbeat and falling far, far short. Opening his palm, he stares down at the stick-like monstrosity in his hand. To think something so small can do so much damage. “Are you _sure_ about this?”

[YES, COMMANDER.]

She doesn’t even hesitate. And that just makes it worse. “I’ll send them back,” he says, hushed, just for her. “There’s a friendly fuel depot a few hours out. I can stay while they—it’ll take time for the First Order to scramble fighters.”

[PROTOCOL—]

“I don’t care about the protocol, ‘sev, I care about getting you out.” He can’t believe—he should’ve _known_ something like this would happen. The first thing they teach you is to watch your fuel in atmo. The second thing he’d learned—though not from his instructors—was to respect your astromech partner. You’ll only ever succeed if you’ve got each other’s backs.

He should’ve searched the First Order camp. Before he’d blown it up, it probably had what they’d needed. Arsev might not have had to offer herself up as a sacrifice if he had.

He should’ve worried less about ensuring Finn’s safety.

He should’ve done more to ensure Arsev’s.

There are a lot of things he should’ve done.

[I MUST ALWAYS ENSURE THE SAFETY OF RESISTANCE PERSONNEL FIRST. I WILL DO MY DUTY.]

_Yeah, the duty that was programmed into you._

Poe unscrews the cap on one side of the stick, careful to avoid opening the end that’s a danger to him. By design, that cap’s a little more difficult to remove, but accidents can happen. He’s made enough mistakes today. The cap clatters to the floor. Exposed now: the syringe-like interface that will inject the kill codes into the computers. Kill codes that’ll work their way through Arsev, taking everything from her that makes her unique. Assuming the First Order finds her—and assuming they get her running again, which is astronomically improbable—they’ll find themselves with a factory-standard droid at best.

And not even one much like Arsev at all. The kill code will scramble her personality matrix, too. Poe’s not just wiping her memories; he’s completely obliterating the rest of her, too.

He lifts the square plasteel cover that hides the port connector in the dash. Stares long and hard at the tiny hole through which he’ll do so much damage. He ought to say something, but no words come to mind. Nothing he can think to say would make a damned bit of difference. He’s killed before, but never with so little at stake personally. Never with so much self-interest, like sweeping a minor inconvenience under the rug.

Like tying up loose ends just to save his own skin.

[COMMANDER, I WOULD MAKE ONE REQUEST.]

“Yeah,” Poe says, thick, the word unsteady on his tongue. He clears his throat, but guilt hooks at the inside of his mouth, making it impossible to speak with clarity. His enunciation is shot to hell, a mumbled mash of shame at best. “Whatever you want, Arsev.”

[TELL TEMMIN HIS SHIP IS IN GOOD HANDS. HE WILL UNDERSTAND.]

A lump lodges itself in the back of Poe’s throat and he has to bite his lip to keep from swearing, to keep from lashing out with words he doesn’t mean and shouldn’t even be thinking. A better man would show kindness, pride in her sacrifice. ”Sure, bud,” he says, thin and wavering, a betrayal to her and to himself. There is no projection of strength as he pushes the stick into its corresponding port. “Whenever you’re ready, Arsev,” he adds, and maybe that’s cowardice on his part, but he can’t—not without permission. _Absolution,_ the snide, rebellious part of him whispers, _you want her to make it okay._

[I’M READY, COMMANDER.]

As Poe keys the override codes into the computer, he wonders what to expect. Whether there will be the fizzling of circuits or a hushed whirring down of the ship’s various systems.

As it turns out, it’s neither. The computer screen goes black, quick and easy, powering down with a minimum of fuss, like a temporary power failure. An accident. “‘sev?” he asks, tilting and twisting his head, searching for proof that she’s not gone. “Arsev?” He pushes and flicks at the buttons and controls, completes the too-familiar sequence that should bring the ship to life.

It does nothing.

He waits, quiet, hands tightening into fists. Though unable to face the others immediately, he knows all the while that the longer they delay, the more likely they’ll face First Order ships as they leave. But his legs don’t want to move. His whole body is frozen in place, and it takes a rattling breath to bring him back enough to tear the purge stick from the dash. It falls to the cockpit floor, cracks and splinters under his boot as he forces himself to stand.

“I’m so sorry, ‘sev.” Leaning heavily against the cockpit’s frame, he reaches into the pouch on his belt and pulls the remaining microgrenades from it, slaps them on the dash. On these, he sets a simple delay before stepping over the side, his feet only finding the ladder’s rungs on the second try.

Might as well do what he can to ensure Arsev’s sacrifice isn’t in vain.

“You want to take a step back,” he says hollowly once he has solid ground beneath his feet again. Expecting the others to follow, he strides toward the shuttle. No one stops him and for that, he’s grateful. He’s on the point of snapping, his skin too tight, the rest of him jumpy and lethargic and off all at once. Any show of solidarity might shatter the illusion of control he has over himself.

“No,” he hears Finn say, low, not for him to hear, though he does anyway. “Let him be.” An earnest protest from Rey, also quiet. Then he reaches the shuttle’s hatch and drowns out the sound of their voices with the pounding of his own feet against the metal ramp.

He takes the pilot’s seat as a matter of course. Neither Rey nor Luke argue with him about it as he settles in, as he starts the pre-flight checks. As he waits for everyone to buckle in. He could do this with his eyes closed, so the fact that he’s not really seeing anything that isn’t directly in front of him isn’t much of a problem. It’s as natural as breathing, even if right now his chest feels so tight he’s afraid his lungs will burst.

Rey takes the co-pilot’s seat, every bit as efficient at her job as he is at his.

“Everyone ready?” he asks rhetorically, the only answer from the rest of them a funereal silence.

The shuttle lifts off, sluggish and unresponsive compared even to the T-65BR. It fights against the weight of the atmosphere pressing down upon it.

None of them mention his flinch as the microgrenades detonate. Even dulled by distance, the sound rings in his head long after the shuttle reaches escape velocity, long after they’ve snuck to safety in the vacuum of space, the _Dissident_ -class cruiser left far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: minor character death.


	6. Chapter 6

“What you’re telling me is we’re no closer to learning what these crystals are or why the First Order wants them,” the general says, features and voice flat. Poe’s summation of the events has, apparently, left much to be desired. “Not to mention that I’m out a ship and a droid—the only ones, I might add, of their particular make and specialty.”

“Arsev,” Poe says, and trying to get through it without his voice cracking is damned hard, “collected as many readings as she could and transmitted as many of them back as possible. The rest is…” He swallows, folds his hands behind his back and squares his shoulders. “The rest is entirely my fault. I take full responsibility for the failure of the mission.”

“We got everything she scanned up until the first explosion. Leia, it’s a lot more than we had before,” Luke says, speaking with a low, even voice. His fingers pluck at his beard. “PZ-4C0 is already collating and distributing the intel to her people—”

“—and I’ve got mine looking at Arsev’s reconstructions of the ship’s designs as well as her compositional analyses. I don’t recognize the cruiser, but one of them might. Particularly the ones with more shipboard experience. I didn’t do a lot of time on a ship, but some of them have,” Finn says. “We find that out… it shouldn’t be too much harder to find out where that ship been and where it’s going.”

“It was Arsev’s scanners that didn’t pick up the mines, ma’am,” Rey adds, straightening to her full height. “I can’t imagine both Poe and Master Luke failing to calibrate her systems correctly. We have to assume they’re working with cloaking technology we don’t have the data splices to crack through. It was no one’s fault—no matter what Poe tries to tell you. And, begging your pardon, this was only a mission to confirm Lha Kalani’s information is correct. From that point of view, it would be considered a success, would it not?”

“Rey,” Poe answers, head twitching left and right, subdued. His gaze shifts to the general’s. “General Organa sent me with the expectation I’d come back with her ship in one piece.” She breaks the gaze first, but not before a look of bitter understanding passes between them.

“That’s not fair,” Rey insists, throwing her hand out in his direction. “He—”

“I made a mistake,” Poe answers, firm, enunciating in a slow, deliberately even tone.

“But you were—”

“Enough,” the general answers, cutting through the air with her open palm. “As charming as this whole argument is, there are more important things at stake. And Poe? Though I appreciate you falling on your sword, it’s done. I’ve said my piece. You’ve said yours. Everyone’s made their point and we’re all unhappy with them. Can we maybe move on and get back to work? It seems like you all know what you’re supposed to be doing.”

Poe straightens. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.” She waves her hand at her office door, pinches the bridge of her nose, turns her back on them and bends toward her desk.

Finn glances at Poe as he passes, stepping close. He stops and squeezes Poe’s elbow, jerking his head toward the door in an unvoiced question. _Wanna get out of here?_ There are still signs of stress in Finn’s face, worried lines around his eyes, an unhappy twist to his mouth, but he doesn’t actively glare at Poe when he looks at Poe. That, at least, is an improvement. At this point, Poe’ll take it.

“General,” Poe says, tensing under Finn’s grip. “There’s one more thing I’d like to discuss.”

‘Later,’ he mouths at Finn.

Finn nods and lets his hand skirt up to clap Poe on the bicep, a discreet show of support. A pleasant warmth suffuses him for the first time all day, there and gone again as Finn congregates with the others by the door.

Unlike them, Poe has to get back to the task at hand, wishing all the while he could go with Finn and pretend everything’s okay. Even if only for a little while.

“What is it?” Leia asks, impatient, twisting around and lifting her head. Her features remain neutral, but there’s a telling set to her mouth—she wants Poe gone.

“I’m lodging a formal complaint about the use of Protocol 23.4-B,” Poe says. As he steps forward, his stomach squeezes into knots.

“That protocol has been in place for more than two years now. You’ve never complained before.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“No?”

He crosses his arms, projects as much strength as he can muster. There hadn’t been time to argue about it before—except with Luke—and now it’s too late for Arsev. He won’t back down now. Still, a voice in the back of his mind whispers at him. _She’s not wrong. Where have you been?_ “We sure as hell didn’t use it when you sent me to Jakku. Might have been useful then all things considered.” His gaze hardens and his voice steels. “I couldn’t have given up BB-8 and the map if—oops—I could just as easily have ensured my own silence before I got captured.”

“Poe—”

“What changed? Really? How’d we get to this point?”

“The destruction of the New Republic capital ought to explain it for you. Not to mention we are woefully underfunded while the First Order continues to turn banking guilds to their cause. If that’s not enough—” Here her gaze, apologetic, slides to the doorway. Toward Finn. “—they are unscrupulous in their method of replenishing their ranks.”

“All the more reason why rescue missions should always be the priority. General—”

“We can’t afford to do that, Poe,” she answers, resigned, interrupting him with the low cadence of her voice. “We can’t—”

“You did it for me!” Poe says, voice shaking despite the loudness, the unexpected violence, of it. “Why send a shuttle after me at all if rescue missions aren’t a priority?” His eyes narrow. “And you put Luke of all people in charge of it. The most powerful man on the base. Pardon me, but it’s not like we’d have to expend a lot of resources doing it. How many times has anyone had to use it here? No one yet anyway.” _Not until now._

“You’re my most talented pilot and everyone on this base looks to you as an example. For all intents and purposes, you _are_ the Resistance to a lot of us.” Rounding her desk, she sidesteps the chair, flattens her palms against the top and leans forward. “I’m not going to let you sacrifice yourself without a fight.”

“You should do no less for anyone else. They deserve—”

“What each of us deserves is not always what we get, Poe. Like it or not, you’re too important to lose. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. On the face of it, you’re not any more deserving. And I wish I could send Luke and Rey and Finn on every mission as backup. But what I think and what you think doesn’t matter. It’s what they think out there that matters.”

“What can they think except General Organa plays favorites with her troops. That we can’t trust her with our lives?”

The general smiles, but it’s not kind and it’s not happy and it’s definitely not amused. “They’re going to think you struck a blow to the First Order by blowing up their camp and they’re going to think Luke was in on it. They’re going to think you’re all heroes. Again. You don’t intend to disabuse them of that notion, do you?”

He paces forward, only paces back at the last second. “It’s a lie.”

“Morale is already low and you’re supposed to be an inspiration to them. Whatever you did to that camp, it must’ve been big. We’ll find out what and why and at that point it won’t all be a lie anymore. Until then, you’ll keep quiet.”

“But—”

“You’re dismissed.”

“General.”

“You’ve made your point and I have work I’d like to get done some time before midnight.” She pauses, waiting for him to move toward the door before she speaks again. He holds his ground for a long, awkward moment before conceding. As though approving his decision to stand down, she says, “I’ll set a committee meeting to discuss the ethics of Protocol 23.4-B. Early next week. Admirals Ackbar, Statura, and I will discuss its continued use and whether a better policy can be implemented. Until then, that policy is suspended. Any launches scheduled during that time will have sufficient back up to ensure everyone’s safety. Will that do?”

Poe steps forward once again, putting distance between himself and the exit. Again. He knows he’s pushing his luck and does it anyway. “I’d like to be there.”

“You can make your case in writing.” She peers at him until he finally reaches her doorway, then adds, “A little advice? Try to take your mind off of all this shit for five minutes. I’ve seen officers burn out over less and you’re as close to it as I’ve ever seen you. If I could afford to pull you, I would, but we’re running on nothing as it is. I need you at one-hundred percent, Poe.”

“I won’t crack, General.” He lifts his chin. “I won’t.”

“I hope that’s true.”

And with that, he and the others leave her office. Luke and Rey head off toward the training rooms on the opposite side of the base with hardly a word spoken between them. “We’ll get this handled,” Rey says. “I’m sure of it.” They disappear down a perpendicular hallway, leaving Finn and Poe to their own devices. Without either of them around, Poe’s at a loss as to what to do and settles for heading back to his quarters. It’s not like he wants to see anyone anyway right now.

Trudging toward the residential wing, Poe knows he ought to invite Finn along, talk about what happened on Velen Prime. Clear the air. But even with Finn walking beside him, their arms brushing, Poe can’t form the words. Even with the way things are right now between them, spending time with Finn would make him feel better. It always does. But as ground down as he is by exhaustion, he can’t convince himself to take that step. _I’ll feel better later_ , he tells himself. Never mind that it’s already well into evening and he’s never been the type to put things off.

_You’re just making excuses for yourself, Dameron_ , a part of his mind supplies.

He tells that part of himself to shove it.

Outside Poe’s quarters, Finn lets him go with an encouraging nod and a quiet, “I’ll stop by in a little while.”

Poe doesn’t have the heart to say to Finn he’d rather wait.

*

A knock sounds at his door, startling him from a fitful doze. He nearly falls off the edge of his stuffed chair—a ratty piece of furniture he’d dragged back from Yavin 4—and stumbles over the boot he doesn’t remember removing from his foot. “Shit,” he hisses. More loudly, “Just a sec.”

Righting himself, he takes a deep breath. Smooths out what wrinkles he can from the heavy fabric of the flight suit. He hadn’t bothered to take it off before. Why would he when he hadn’t intended to fall asleep?

More than a little groggy, he has no idea when in the day cycle it is. And since few sections of the base come equipped with windows, he can’t look outside for a clue. BB-8 would know the time, but BB-8 isn’t here, not when he can spend time with Rey. His new favorite, Poe sometimes calls her, if only to rile BB-8 a little. As though Poe would begrudge him another friend.

The knock sounds again, this time more insistent.

Finn. He’s the only one who knocks with that particular cadence.

Scrubbing at his eyes, he reaches the door, palms it open. Finn becomes visible as it sweeps aside, just as Poe had expected. Weariness crashes over Poe as he takes in Finn’s appearance, the not quite hopeful determination in his eyes, the careful set of his shoulders, the—

“Is that a thermocarafe?” Poe asks, nodding at the metal cylinder tucked under Finn’s arm, curious despite himself. Two mugs are hooked over his pinkie and clack together every time he shifts on his feet.

“Hello to you, too,” Finn says, his reply somehow missing dickish and landing well into charming. Poe chalks it up to Finn’s innate goodness. He’d be jealous if he didn’t admire Finn so much for it. “You said caf, right? Are you gonna let me in or what?”

Finn leans forward, peering into the room before peering again at Poe, suspicious. “Were you asleep?” How he could’ve guessed that is beyond Poe. “You’re looking a little…” He lifts his palm and sort of motions toward Poe’s flight suit. Right. That would be how. The flight suit. “… rumpled.”

Poe lets his shoulder hold up the door frame as he bites at the corner of his mouth. _Nah,_ he thinks, _I thought I’d let you stand in the hallway all night._ But he shouldn’t abuse Finn’s arrival this way, shouldn’t turn it into a joke, not when Finn is acting in good faith. Scratching at the back of his neck, he gestures Finn inside. Keeps his snide remark locked away where it belongs.

“If this is a bad time…” Finn adds, cautiously scrutinizing Poe.

“No worse than any other time,” Poe replies after a short deliberation. It’d be a lie to say it’s not a bad time, but he’s not about to turn Finn away or make Finn think he should go. Not now that he’s here. And with caf in hand.

“I thought I’d hold you to that date we made.” Finn peers at Poe’s chair, at the bed, at the ceiling. It must take him a minute to register what he’s said, because he very suddenly winces.

Poe’s heart thumps, vicious, against his breastbone. _Is that what this is?_ His voice is a little thin when he speaks, a little thready, like he’s hearing himself over a bad comm signal. “Sure, yeah. That’s…”

Finn’s eyes narrow thoughtfully and he tilts his head. A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth, there and gone. Poe wouldn’t call it a happy smile exactly, but he wouldn’t call it a sarcastic one either—nor even an ironic one. Maybe self-deprecating. ”I didn’t mean… not like a—” he pauses, his jaw tightening as he looks away, the muscles in his cheeks tensing. Poe’s heart falls somewhere into the pit of his stomach.

Something of his disappointment—he doesn’t want to call it anything else, it’s nothing worse than that—must show on his face. Finn’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open. “Oh, hell. I just mean there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. I shouldn’t have mentioned… It just slipped out. Not that I—just…”

“I got what you meant,” Poe says, interrupting him and fighting the urge to turn Finn away all at once. He doesn’t often let himself imagine what being with Finn would be like. With work like theirs, every distraction is a liability. But he’d be the least observant _nerf_ on the base if he didn’t realize what it meant that Poe trusted Finn so much. That so much of what Poe _does_ now is motivated by Finn. How much of his mood, his day, even his recreational activities, revolve around Finn and what Finn’s doing. At heart, he belongs to the Resistance. Always has. But now there’s that concrete piece, that _something_ that managed to get under his armor, push him to do that much better, worry that much more. Under different circumstances, he’d like to explore it, but there’s a reason he hasn’t broached the subject. Not in any actual way. In all honesty though, despite many very good reasons why he’s not planning on attempting to pursue anything with Finn, it stings to hear the suggestion raised and dismissed like this.

“Oh,” Finn says, relief evident in the slumping of his shoulders. “Sure, yeah. Of course you did.”

“Yeah,” Poe says, a little sick, keyed up and chagrined and reassured all at once. What would he do if Finn had meant it? He backs toward his bed and sits heavily, motioning for Finn to take the chair. He turns his head and coughs into his shoulder, nerves fluttering. “What was it you wanted to talk about?” Not that Poe can’t guess, but…

Finn sits, spine straight, both legs on the floor, precise. On anyone else, it would look awkward. On Finn, it just suggests guardedness. He leans forward and hands Poe one of the mugs, places his own on the floor next to his foot. “I thought I knew what I was gonna say,” he says, offhand, focused entirely on twisting off the carafe’s top. “Took me a while to decide if I wanted to get you to talk, you know? Sometimes it’s good to talk about these things.”

“Finn.” Poe shakes his head slowly. If this is why Finn’s here he wants no part of it. “I don’t need to—”

“I know,” Finn replies, getting right into Poe’s face as he stretches to pour some caf into his mug. From the pale, almost beige color of it, Finn’s already doctored it to just the strength he likes. Fondness washes over him. Finn’ll have to drink it that way, too, even though he’s always telling Poe he drinks it too sweet. What’s the point if you can’t even taste the stuff, he always says. “So I’m gonna do the talking. If that’s okay with you.”

“Sure,” Poe replies. “I think I can manage that.”

Finn pours his own caf, takes a sip, grimaces—just like Poe would have guessed. He blows out a breath and his fingernails tap against the crisp white ceramic of his mug. “Back when I was—” Finn never really specifically explicates it, never says, ‘when I was a stormtrooper,’ but Poe always knows what he means. “We did this training exercise once. One-on-one matches. The winner fights the newcomers until they lose. That winner fights newcomers, and so on until everyone is pretty much bruised and hurting and angry.”

“All of you did this?” Poe asks.

“No. Just a couple of the corps, mine and the FLs.”

He has to dredge up some names from deep in his memory. For many varied and obvious reasons, Finn doesn’t like to talk about his time with the First Order and he certainly doesn’t like to talk about his squad. Poe has always felt honored that Finn would share anything about his former life with him. “So Slip and the others, too?”

“Slip, yeah. Nines and Zeroes, too.” He doesn’t hesitate when he speaks, but his voice cracks and he looks down, shuts his eyes. “Slip got the idea he needed to be the best, prove himself to everyone, I guess. He’d get hit. He’d go down. And he’d get right back up. I can still hear what it sounded like…” Poe’s eyes haven’t left Finn’s face the whole time, but it’s only now that he looks back before his gaze darts away again. “It was brutal. And none of the instructors would stop it.

“Eventually I had to face him myself. He was—not in good shape by the time I had to…” Finn takes another sip of his caf, reminding Poe that he has a cup of his own. He lifts his to his lips. The steam wafts up, comforting and familiar. The sweetness of the _lalla_ used to temper the scorched, bitterness of the liquid tickles at his senses. When he drinks it, the taste strikes a perfect balance between the two opposing flavors.

“I had to decide whether I was going to let him win or drop him so he wouldn’t have to face someone who didn’t care.”

Poe leans forward, not a little troubled. He’s taken part in a few friendly sparring competitions. They wouldn’t look unfamiliar from Finn’s description of it. In format, if not in attitude. “What did you do?”

“I took him down. Got him off the mat for a little while at least.” He sucks in a breath. “It didn’t feel good or right, but I did it.”

“You were merciful.”

“I think that’s what I thought I was being. Deep down.” Finn stares into his mug, lost for a moment. “I think, now, I’d been trying to reach someone, show them they didn’t have to be what they’d been trained to be. I thought Slip of all people might understand. But… Phasma deployed us to a mining operation on an asteroid not long after. Nobody there had done anything wrong. They just wanted fair treatment for the work they did and they’d risked retribution by demanding it.

“The First Order didn’t see it that way.” Finn pauses again. “Phasma ordered us to shoot a room full of miners, a few representatives who only wanted to keep living and keep working. Slip was the first to obey. Never even hesitated. Didn’t even think about what he did. Who those people were.”

Poe clears his throat, fails to stop his stomach from churning with impotent rage. For Finn and for those miners both. “Finn, you did the right thing. It would’ve been the right thing to do regardless.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Like I said, I thought so at the time,” Finn says. “But that’s not the point. My point is people are going to believe what they’re going to believe and they’re going to behave accordingly. No matter what you do.”

“Right,” Poe says again, feeling useless, like a broken holorecording, skipping and repeating, getting nowhere. “So that just absolves me of responsibility then?”

“No,” Finn replies, unruffled by Poe’s combative tone. “That means you do better next time. And you honor Arsev’s sacrifice. You honor her bravery and afford her the respect she deserves for making the hardest call a being can make. You understand what she did, why she did it, and you celebrate her autonomy.”

“How much autonomy could she have had in that situation?”

“More than you’re giving her credit for.”

“I—”

“And maybe it doesn’t matter what I say, because _you’re_ going to believe what you’re going to believe.” Finn’s voice is full of kindness, his fondness both evident and overwhelming despite the pain it must have caused him to share that story about Slip.

“Finn…” Poe’s heart leaps up into his throat, guilt tangling itself in his thoughts. “What you say always matters to me.” He scrubs at his face with his palm, uncomfortably warm from the heat of the mug. “I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise. And I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but…”

Finn’s brow furrows in confusion and he stares again down into his mug. Poe itches to take it away from him, itches to make him look at Poe, see that Poe is earnest. He’s _grateful_ even if he can’t show it the way Finn deserves. Not when his grief already threatens to suffocate him. If he allows himself to feel even a little bit of its pressure, he might well be crushed under it. “General Organa has had to make some tough decisions,” Finn says, hedging his words, before Poe can make a fool of himself. “And so have you.”

“You don’t gotta tell me.”

“But maybe I have to tell you to cut yourself and her some slack.” Finn bites his lip, taps again at the mug. “She can’t lose you, Poe. And neither can I if there’s anything I can do about it. So if you’re going to fault her for that, you’re gonna have to fault me, too. Every time. There’s not a rule on this base that would stop me from trying for you. You might be better than all of us in that regard.”

“There are rules for a reason, Finn,” Poe replies, wondering how he got here. He’s not even sure what he’s arguing for anymore, whether he even believes the purge sticks are wrong or if he’s just mad because he’d squeaked through, safe. When Arsev hadn’t. And others might not have and maybe won’t in the future. The general has never disclosed the statistics about their use. “I shouldn’t get a free pass.”

“Indiscriminately following rules gets you the First Order.” Finn’s cheek indents as he grimaces. “And I saw the look on your face in that cockpit, Poe. You were ready to start breaking some rules.”

“That’s—”

“Different?” The chair squeaks as Finn leans forward, his elbow resting on his knee. “Yes, it is. But the impulse comes from the same place, doesn’t it?”

Knee-jerk, Poe opens his mouth to argue, but then he stops. He’s tired of arguing. And he doesn’t want to start in with Finn about it. Because it doesn’t _feel_ the same. But since he’s not Finn and he’s not the general, he can’t say Finn’s not right. _Take your mind off this shit for five minutes, Poe_ , he hears in his head. “This isn’t going to happen again,” he says, slamming his index finger into his thigh, ignoring the thought for a moment. “Not like this. Not when it was avoidable. I won’t let it.”

“So we fix it,” Finn says, the moment of decision flashing in his eyes. He doesn’t even hesitate in offering his help and support. Whatever problem he’d had with Poe on the planet seems to have completely resolved itself.

Poe tries to respond, but his eyes prickle and his throat constricts as he swallows. He’s exhausted. Sick at heart. Dragged down by a heaviness in his chest—a new feeling for him. He’s never had reason to be ashamed of his failures before. And now Finn is offering his support. It’s too much. And it undercuts his fury more effectively than anything else has today. Or ever probably.

Words have never been his forte; he can’t explain the bone-deep weariness inside of him by using them. Deflated and defused, he pushes himself toward the edge of his bunk and claps his hand on Finn’s knee, squeezing lightly.

Finally, taking a shaky breath, he says, “What do you say we watch a vid or something? You haven’t seen _Raiders of Iego_ yet.” A transparent ploy, but he’s willing to concede that maybe the general was right. Maybe he does need a little distance. And now that he’s planning on doing something about the problem, he can relax. Just for a little while. Before he does make a liar out of himself.

“We can do that,” Finn answers, easy, hand settling over Poe’s for a fleeting moment. Poe pulls back, surprised at the contact, his skin tingling despite the brevity of the touch. His knuckles crack as he tenses and relaxes his fingers, willing the sensation to fade. After forming a few fists, it does. It’ll take a lot longer than that, though, to actually forget the scrape of Finn’s callouses as they’d dragged across the back of his hand. The softness of his palm. The throb of adrenaline as it works through his body, a formless jolt that leaves him even more restless than the caf does.

Ignoring his reactions as best he can, he calls up the vid on the holoprojector mounted on the wall behind his head. Scoots back as it spools to life on the sparkling screen that flickers to life in the center of the room.

He just barely avoids spending the entirety of _Iego_ watching Finn’s reactions to it.

But better that, he supposes, than ruminating in circles about everything else that’s happened in the last couple of days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the bit of Finn’s backstory with Slip and the rest of his squad goes to Greg Rucka and Finn’s chapter in Before the Awakening. One day I will get over those short stories, but today is not that day.


	7. Chapter 7

Crouched over his tool kit, Poe bites his lip and scrounges through his equipment. His eyes shift to _Black One_ and the mess he’s made of the socket in the back where BB-8 is supposed to go. Wires dangle from its innards, shifting in the breeze licking through the large, open entrance to the base’s hangar. They tangle and curl around one another, each strand coated in mismatched orange or red or blue, jeering at him with their joyous riot of color. He’s done a few customization jobs in his time, but he’s not the guy to rebuild a ship’s architecture in his spare time. Doesn’t matter how many tweaks he might have made in the past. This job is above his pay grade. Irritation flares hot in his chest, gnaws at the back of his mind.

Despite his near continuous failure to reconfigure his ship, his determination grows and he digs with even more intent through his gear. Spare electronics, a wrench or three or five, pliers, a not strictly regulation vibroblade. So much stuff he can’t even remember where he got some of it.

 _Probably gonna need that vibroblade_. His gaze roves across the hangar, scanning the far ends of it, settling nowhere as his mind wanders. Still, he keeps enough awareness to avoid the glances of anyone who looks his way. If only he could avoid, too, the sensation of eyes upon him, real and imagined. _Maybe some fusioncutters, too_.

As he turns his attention back to the kit, a pair of dark boots enter his field of vision. Scuffed up, old and beloved, with a splatter of white paint on the toe. Poe would recognize anywhere.

Snap. Just the person Poe doesn’t want to see. He lifts his gaze as far as he can bring himself to. Not quite up to the man’s eyes, but close enough to see the quick rise and fall of his chest.

“What the hell did you do to my ship, Dameron?” Snap yells, pointing at the empty spot in the hangar where it once stood. The dark corner mocks Poe. Has, in fact, mocked Poe the whole time he’s been out here today. If he looks in that direction out of the corner of his eye, he could almost believe the old snoopscoot was over there. Shadows are tricky like that, make you see things you want to see. Snap’s ship in this case.

If only it were true.

Poe lifts his hands, a warding gesture that will do no good if Snap decides to get in Poe’s face. Climbing to his feet, his thighs aching, he says, “Listen—”

“And what about Ar-Seven, huh?” he continues, narrowing his eyes, stabbing his finger at Poe, missing Poe’s chest only by a small margin. “You weren’t supposed to _leave her in enemy territory_.”

Poe takes a deep breath, counts out a handful of them before answering. _Force-damned gossip network on this base._ “I did what I could, Snap. You know I wouldn’t—” His words sound weak even to his own ears, unconvincing, like he’s only arguing because Snap is.

Cheeks growing pink, Snap barks out his response. “Like hell you wouldn’t.”

“Like hel—? _Snap_. Do you really think I wouldn’t do—” Poe knows sometimes people forget that droids are important, too, that they’re not disposable. But Snap isn’t one of those people. And neither is Poe.

“I think you’d do whatever you had to do to get that intel back to base.”

Anger flickers through him, licks just under his skin, itching to get out. The same anger he’d thrown in the general’s face yesterday. The same anger that twists around and takes a swipe at Poe when it doesn’t have another target to go after. That anger stops him from trying to explain and instead puts him on the defensive despite the voice in the back of his head telling him to cool it. “Look, you’ve got a problem, fine.” He lowers his voice aware, very aware, of the many curious eyes turned their way. Eyes that, were Poe’s own to make contact with them, would find the ground of particular interest. Until he looked away again at least. It prickles under his skin, that awareness, and it pisses him off all the more. At the very least, Snap could’ve picked anywhere else to confront him. “But not out here, you got that, Lieutenant?”

It’s hard enough keeping morale up.

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Poe.” Shoulders hitching, Snap takes a step forward. His eyes flash and darken. The muscles in his neck tense and his lip hikes up into a sneer. If Poe wasn’t so _done_ with everything, Snap might intimidate him. Poe suspects Snap believes he will be intimidated, because when he doesn’t cow Poe, he struggles to maintain his grimace and his eyes soften with confusion, a confusion that quickly reignites as anger.

His knuckles crack when he squeezes his hands into fists at his side.

He is still not intimidated. “You’re out of line.” _Calm down,_ he thinks, though whether he means himself or Snap, he’s not sure.

“I know you—”

Poe’s veneer of equanimity cracks, exposing his underbelly, the frustration he’s trying so hard to subsume. His voice hardens and chills and he leans toward Snap, looking up at him, chin lifted. “You don’t know a damned thing.”

A few things happen at once as Snap’s voice fades into the background of his awareness. Snap reaches for him. A gasp sounds from somewhere to his right. Footsteps pound from somewhere to the left. A heavy tool thunks to the ground, the noise reverberating, distant.

He almost gets knocked over, is shoved back and out of the way. A familiar hand holds tight to his sleeve to keep him there.

“Easy,” Finn says, now standing between Poe and Snap. Which is good. Because although Poe can hold his own in a fight, Finn knows how to put an end to them. Fast. And Snap might be good—probably one of the better of Poe’s pilots at hand-to-hand, quick and dirty and brutal—but he’s not that good. He’s not good enough to take on Finn and win. And he must know that, too, because he stalls, arm falling to his side. “You don’t want to do this. Whatever you’re thinking, _it’s not Commander Dameron’s fault_.”

And the way Finn says it, like his title actually means something… it doesn’t sit right with Poe. He’s still that recruit who joined the Republic Navy all those years ago, headstrong at best, impulsive at worst. He hasn’t really changed. Hasn’t really _done_ anything to deserve a title except show a little initiative once. He’d gotten the right person’s attention. He shouldn’t have something that powerful tacked onto his name. And he wishes every day that he could give it back, return to being a nobody on the front lines.

But he’ll accept its use if it keeps Snap from lashing out at Finn.

Which, really? That’s what matters. Poe might well deserve to take a few hits, but Finn absolutely does not. And Poe’s not sure what he’d do if Snap tried to land one against Finn. They’d both end up in the brig probably. Or medical and then the brig.

_Lay a finger on him, I dare you._

“That’s good, Wexley.” Finn nods, encouraging, as Snap steps back, loosens his stance and cracks his neck. “Now, I’m pretty sure I didn’t just see you try to strike your superior office,” he continues, his stance relaxing. From this vantage point, Poe can still see the tension across Finn’s shoulders, the sharpened curve of his spine, even through the thick fabric of his jacket. “In fact, I’d wager no one else saw it either. Did you see anything, Commander?”

He shrugs, his anger snuffing out, mere weak embers in his chest. Settling into resignation, it loses most of its bite. Only a trickle of bitterness remains, and an ineffectual throb of adrenaline. “What’s to see?” he replies, reaching for composure. He gets… he’s not sure what he gets. Disgust, maybe. Or acidic disregard. Something a little bit meaner than Poe’s used to feeling. But Snap shrinks as a result, crumples in on himself. His features twist with pain, grow ugly with wrinkles. Then they smooth to an utter blankness.

Poe’s skin crawls in recognition.

“You got the bastards?” Snap asks, dull in his grief.

“Yeah.” Finn answers before Poe can even open his mouth. His hand twists and tightens in Poe’s sleeve, then releases him entirely. “Yes. They did. I saw it myself. Those _bastards_ got theirs for what happened.”

Snap nods, sighing. Scratching at his beard, he looks away. Despite his stature, he looks more like a child than Poe’s ever seen. His voice, when he speaks again, is thready and lost. Hitches just a little bit. Poe wishes he wasn’t here to hear it. “I… sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“That’s okay,” Poe says, forcing the words out between each twinge of hurt. He shouldn’t blame Snap and can’t even imagine how he’d react were he in the same position. He steps up beside Finn, brushes close, his suit catching on the buckle on the outside of Finn’s sleeve. “I get it, Snap. You have every right to blame me.”

Finn nudges him hard in the side, scowls and shifts away.

“No,” Snap replies after a long, stretched moment of indecision. “No, that was uncalled for.” His hand drifts up to scrub at his hair, tufts of it sticking up into the air as a result. “Shit. What a damned mess.”

“She wanted me to tell you that she took care of everything,” Poe adds, not entirely sure how he’ll take it. If it’s even the right thing to say. He hopes he’s not misconstruing her words, that they’ll actually mean something to Snap. “She said you’d understand.”

“Sure.” His eyes rove, finding their focus somewhere over Poe’s shoulder, disconcertingly bright. His bearing takes on a military precision that suits him poorly. He’s not a military guy. Never has been. Never will be. “Listen, I’m gonna—if you need to… I’ll accept any disciplinary action you find it necessary to take.” He swallows. “Sir.”

“You’re fine, Snap.” Exhaustion drapes its heavy weight over Poe’s shoulders. He is so very tired. Of fighting. Of wanting to fight and needing to fight. Of being in charge and bearing so much responsibility. His chest aches with it. He doesn’t _want_ to discipline anyone and he certainly doesn’t want to discipline someone when they’re in mourning. It trickles into his awareness just how exhausted he is, how much he doesn’t want to do. It used to be he couldn’t do enough. He’d like to know what’s changed, wonders if he could go back, wonders again whether he’d even want to. “Just… take the day off. Take care of yourself. We’ll call it even.”

A little dazed, Snap nods again. Poe’s tongue sits thick in his mouth, a wasted appendage, clumsy. His teeth grind together in frustration. His jaw locks. All of this works in tandem to keep Poe from speaking. Not that he’d have the words even if he wanted to say something more.

Snap mutters an awkward goodbye and every set of eyes in the hangar trail him as he shuffles out. Funny how much difference a day makes. Yesterday he’d sauntered away, abandoning Poe to the charming company of Luke Skywalker. Today…

“You okay?” Finn asks, facing Poe, giving him a concerned once over. Now that Snap’s gone, Finn’s attention falls entirely to Poe. His scrutiny hooks into Poe’s chest, makes demands Poe just can’t meet.

“Yeah,” Poe replies, turning toward his ship. He strides, almost ponderous, toward her, mind half a galaxy away. The last of his anger drains away entirely, leaves nothing in its wake. Finn’s boots scrape across the duracrete as he matches Poe’s pace, catching up. Attention only half on Finn, he stops and says, “You didn’t have to step in for me. I had it handled.”

“Did you?” Finn asks, deliberately casual. He inspects _Black One_ , lips pursed. “Looked to me like you were about to let him take a swing at you.”

“I wasn’t,” Poe insists, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He tries to focus on how best to make her safer. Instead, images of BB-8 sacrificing himself fill his thoughts. What would he do if it had been BB-8 hurt on a mission with another pilot? He adds, too late to be a purposeful pause, “Really.”

“Mmhmm.”

Poe grabs hold of the tiny glimmer of morbid amusement he feels, forces it to the fore. It’s either that or give in to the despair twitching under his skin, pushing at him. It’s one thing to have Snap calling him out. It’s another altogether when it’s Finn. Finn, who shouldn’t ever have seen Poe about to come to blows with one of his subordinates. Poe’s better than that and Finn deserves better than that out of him. _You gotta get your head on straight, Dameron._ “I’d have ducked at least.”

He can’t admit he’d been more worried he’d be the one taking a swing.

He forces himself to smile, a crooked upward quirk he’s been told is rakish. A smile that works, occasionally, to get him out of trouble. A smile meant to encourage Finn to believe Poe’s okay.

Finn must not see much humor in the situation—and he must not care much about believing Poe’s fine—because he goes stony-faced and cold. For a moment, he looks like he’s been carved out of Durosian marble. Immovable. Implacable. Removed from the messiness of reality. Like he’s capable of seeing the entirety of things and finds it lacking. “You’d have ducked,” he repeats, the illusion splintering. “That’s something, I guess.”

“Look, I know Snap. He wouldn’t have—” Poe stops, suppressing his annoyance—with himself mostly, but a little bit with Finn, too. _Why do I have to justify it at all?_ Nothing _happened_. And so shame absolutely doesn’t turn his stomach even more than it already has. And it doesn’t _matter_ if Finn thinks less of him for it. Because this whole… thing? Is nothing. “He’s hurting, too. I’m not gonna hold that against him. If a swing’s what it takes to help him out, fine.”

“Right,” Finn says, clipped, rolling his shoulder. “And what about what would help you out?”

Heart rate jumping, his pulse wild, he draws a shaky breath. “I don’t need help.”

“You don’t need—” Finn scoffs, exhaling on a laugh. “Right. Sure, yeah. You know what? Let’s just drop it. Because I didn’t actually come out here to argue with you about this.”

Affront straightens Poe by the spine. An argument threatens to burst from between his lips, held back through a sheer force of will and Poe’s regard for Finn. “Then I’d love to hear what you actually did come out here for.”

It comes out a little tighter than Poe had hoped.

Finn startles, shadows cast across his eyes as they narrow. He opens his mouth, closes it. Scoffs to clear his throat. “We’ve got the ship. FL-4581 figured it out. It’s the _Reprisal_.”

“Already?” Poe’s heart almost stalls out, then kicks in at double speed, annoyance forgotten with the rush of discovery. He doesn’t know a damned thing about the _Reprisal_. What it’s done. Who commands it. How high in the chain they’re talking. But it’s a name. And that means they’re closer. Close enough that Poe can taste what it’ll be like to get a hold of them. Make them pay.

 _So much for tiring of the fight_.

“We got lucky. She spent a few months on-board splicing code for them. Knew it immediately.” He reaches into his jacket and removes a datapad. Hands it to Poe. “We’ve got it all here.”

Poe flips it on, swipes through the various menus. Names, numbers, schematics all accost his eyes, a blur of letters and numbers he doesn’t even try to read. They’re irrelevant right now. When they put together a strike team, then he’ll pay attention. But he’s got more important things on his mind right now. “Where’s it going?” he asks, eyes scanning for just that information.

“Funny you should ask,” Finn answers, grabbing the pad back to tap on the screen. “The Velennian Cluster almost doesn’t count as an Outer Rim territory. No one goes there. Too far out of the way. Not quite hidden enough for most people trying to conduct ‘business’ out that way. But it sits pretty damned close to what most beings would consider the last stop on the Hydian Way.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I think it’s pretty clear they’re heading back to home base with their cargo. Arc their trajectory just right and they’d have no problems avoiding inhabited systems.” He returns the pad to Poe. Probable destinations glimmer in bright lines. All of them swoop toward the Unknown Regions. First Order territory. “It wouldn’t be that hard to avoid detection. Lha Karani lucked out. Right place, right time, right person. Even the people running the nearest fuel depot haven’t reported any First Order activity and they’re Resistance symapthizers.”

“That’s not suspicious to you?”

Finn shrugs. “Space is big. The First Order has a lot of resources. It’s not out of the question that they’ve gone unnoticed until now. But that’s not the important part.”

Poe arches his eyebrows, waiting, stomach tying itself into knots in anticipation. He braces himself for another blow. They’ve had such a poor run on luck lately, it seems likely whatever Finn has to say it’s not good.

The muscles in Finn’s neck tighten and his jaw clenches. He swallows and blows out a breath. “The Hydian Way cuts right through Eriadu. It could be a coincidence, but…”

“But it’s worth checking out anyway.” He looks up at Finn and back down at the pad. “You think this is why Eriadu took the chance of siding with the First Order?”

“Could be.”

“But why?” Poe shakes his head, too many possibilities coming to mind. Currying favor. Eriadu’s governor feeling slighted by the Republic. Greed. Genuine belief in the First Order’s cause. Poe’s not sure which is the worst option, but they’ve got a few explanations for why Eriadu might have chosen now to denounce the Republic. And the Resistance. “And what do the crystals have to do with it?”

“You’d have to ask Rey or Skywalker. They’re the ones trying to figure that out. At this point, your guess is as good as mine.” He rolls his shoulders again, twists his head to the side, nervous as his eyes claim a spot near Poe’s feet. “For all I know, they’re just worth a lot of credits. Or someone thinks they look pretty. Hell, they might not have anything to do with Eriadu at all.”

Waving the pad in the air, Poe asks, “Have you told General Organa?”

“Yep. She sent me to get you.” He peers at Poe, examining his dirty flight suit. It’s not, Poe has to admit, one of his better looks. Finn keeps his mouth shut about it anyway.

Sighing, he pushes his hand through his hair, mind whirling. This new information twists and plants itself in his mind—or tries to. It can’t find purchase, circles around and back, fails to make sense no matter which way he looks at it. But if General Organa wants something done, he’ll get it done. Whatever it is. Even if he has less than nothing to go on. Even if he doesn’t understand the big picture yet. _And maybe this time, we’ll find out something useful_. “What’s the plan?”

Finn grimaces, squinting up at the ceiling far, far above their heads. If Poe didn’t think better of Finn, he’d call the look a guilty one. Jerking his head toward the main compound across the tarmac, he reaches for Poe, his hand settling near Poe’s lower back. A heated shiver trips its way up his spine, spreads warmth across his shoulders and up his neck, creeping along his jaw and toward his cheeks. Finn doesn’t notice thankfully. Just starts talking as though nothing is the matter. Not oblivious exactly, just utterly unaware of the effect he has on people—the effect he has on _Poe_. “Come on. I’ll tell you about it on the way. Transport’s already prepped.”

“That quick?”

“Let’s just say we’re kind of running on a tight schedule here,” is all Finn offers. As far as responses go, it leaves a lot to be desired. “I even had to have the flight crew prep a bag for you. Sorry. I know you’d probably prefer to do that yourself.”

“No, no. I don’t mind. A simple guy like me could get used to that,” Poe says, tugging on his collar, grateful that Finn had thought to have it done at all. He then allows himself to be distracted by the suddenness of a new mission. Flight prep is never completed so fast, not unless Poe’s in charge of it. To say he’s curious is an understatement. “So what are we waiting for?”

Finn’s glance cuts sideways toward him, like he’s trying to figure Poe out. Too bad Poe can’t even figure himself out.

“Well,” Poe says, gesturing nebulously at where he thinks they might be going. “Lead the way, Finn. I’m following you on this one.”


	8. Chapter 8

“You were right about one thing,” Poe says, jamming the toes of his boot against the metal floor. It clangs, ringing hollow, the sound bouncing off the cargo hold around them. He spins once, slow, taking the whole of it in. All in all? He can’t say he’s impressed with it. A haphazard assortment of poorly packed crates, listless and dust-covered, stand in one corner. Scratches and scuffs mar so much of the walls, he’s not sure which metal it started out as. Mold and rust conspire to infiltrate his lungs, so irritating that he sneezes.

And there’s not a single person here to greet them even though Finn had said before that they were expected.

To top it off, he looks like a bounty hunter scraped out of a crappy holovid.

A dark jacket—not his jacket, and he’s not sure where it came from or how Finn found it—fits tight across his arms, forcing his shoulder blades back into a parody of military precision just to give him some room to maneuver. Even worse, his pants, also dark and snug, fit in ways that make him hope he won’t have to move around in them too much. Needless to say, he’s losing them as soon as he finds a replacement pair. And he’s never letting Finn pack his bag again. There’s blending in and then there’s… this. The holster around his waist, the least objectionable part of this whole get up, sits heavy on his right hip. Tips his balance in a way that might well affect his skill with a blaster. _We can’t all be Han Solo,_ he thinks, unable to muster much more than a tinge of dark amusement at the thought. “I don’t like this,” he says, hand waving at the hold, himself, and Finn, for good measure.

For whatever reason, Finn looks a lot more relaxed in his own get up. Or, well. Not relaxed exactly. But not nervous either. Nor fidgety. He scans the hold, vigilant, eyebrows high on his forehead, but he remains collected. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he replies, motioning Poe toward the hatch that leads into the ship proper.

At least, Poe presumes it does. He’s never actually set foot on Lha Karani’s freighter before. And before, he’d never have thought he would.

“Well, I—” Poe starts, cut off as soon as Finn’s fist connects with the hatch, thudding against the thick slab of metal. He scrubs at his nose, distinctly aware that he hasn’t got a beard and the prosthetic to hide behind. Not even the contacts. He kind of wishes he had those at least. Could maybe have pretended he’d gotten the bridge of his nose fixed finally. Could have pretended Lesz found himself a beard suppressant.

But no. He’s here as Poe Dameron. And Finn is by his side. And it should be all right. They’re not in danger. But good luck telling that to the inside of Poe’s head.

_We’ve been stuck in worse circumstances before_ , he reminds himself. This is an ally they’re meeting, a reasonably well-known quantity, even if she is paid handsomely for her loyalty. The twist of worry in his gut should have subsided by now—or not formed at all. _You used to trust people more, Poe Dameron._

Metal squeals and protests and twists, clanking, and then stutters and slides aside, revealing a hallway leading to… somewhere. From behind the hatch, a backlight silhouette steps forward.

Lha’ka.

“Commander Finn,” she says, an impressed, maybe pleased, smile on her face as she steps beneath the single dingy light inside the hold. Squeezing against the hatch, she gestures expansively for Finn to precede her back inside. Her gaze flicks to Poe as she motions him along with quick, tight jerks of her hand, too. The scars on the side of her head have calmed, Poe notes, grown more bluish than the angry red he remembers. Must’ve taken a lot of bacta to get it looking that healed this soon. Smirking as Poe passes, she inclines her head, “And the _great_ Poe Dameron at last.”

He can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. If she knows who he had pretended to be or not. It seems ridiculous that she _shouldn’t_ recognize Lesz in him when they’re so obviously one and the same, but the only thing he can tell for sure is she doesn’t truly believe he’s great. Not from the flatness of her greeting. “Lha Karani Sik,” he replies, willing to play pretend just in case. They might need her in the future. And they might need Lesz. No reason to blow his own cover because she might know who he is. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

“You’ve heard things,” she replies, looking him up and down, her nostrils flaring with disdain, “maybe. Good, I’m not so sure.” She turns toward Finn. “Your general realizes the pressure she is putting me under, does she not?”

“Of course,” Finn answers, easily taking the lead. Poe remembers a time when he’d stumbled under the burden of command-level responsibilities, worried he’d mess it up, worried he hadn’t deserved it. Which had been pure foolishness, of course. He could always lead troops, small strike teams especially, but he’s no slouch with larger deployments either. But he’d stumbled when he’d realized his suggestions, his experiences and analyses, bore weight with General Organa, with Admirals Ackbar and Statura, and with everyone else down the line.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” he’d asked Poe the day he’d gotten his promotion, worry in his eyes. Worry that Poe hadn’t understood at the time. He’d fidgeted in his uniform, shoulders drooping, and Poe couldn’t understand that either, not when those fancy new pips symbolized everything Finn had earned.

Outside of a cockpit, Finn’s always been quicker than Poe. That applies to strategy, sensitivity, and the ability, apparently, to correctly extrapolate future trouble from a fine day and a nice surprise. In this case, the fact that leadership roles can really, really suck. Most people are _happy_ when they get a promotion. Poe had been, at least until he’d realized more responsibility means a whole new brand of nerf shit to tackle day in and day out. But not Finn. Finn had realized the seriousness of it all immediately.

“Doesn’t what bother me?” Poe’d replied, immodestly pleased with Finn’s uniform, the gleaming pin signifying his new rank, the esteem in which the Resistance held him, almost as great, then, as Poe’s. He’d reached out and tugged on Finn’s collar, brushed his hands over Finn’s shoulders and down his biceps.

“You’ve been with the Resistance so much longer than I have.” He’d jerked out of Poe’s touch, a shame really, and rolled his shoulders, easing none of the tension in them. Poe remembers he’d stepped back to give his friend some space when all he’d wanted to do was insinuate himself into it.

“Not that much longer.” Brows furrowing, fingers itching as he’d crossed his arms, he’d added, “What are you getting at?”

“I’m the same rank as you now.”

“So? You deserve it. I’d make you a colonel if I could,” he’d said, simple. Easy. Because it had been true then. Just as it’s true now. Finn just owns it in a way he hadn’t before. And Poe’s glad to see that if nothing else. There aren’t many people Poe trusts the way he trusts Finn. He’d follow Finn into hell and back if he had to. Probably even if he didn’t have to, too. Only General Organa rivals Finn in this respect.

_Who are you kidding,_ Poe thinks. _You’d_ lead _the way into hell for Finn_.

“Just so long as she knows,” Lha’ka answers, appeased, her answer pulling Poe back to the present. She gestures toward another hatch further in. It leads—Poe’s not sure where. The bridge maybe. An observation deck. Whatever. She strides past both of them when they don’t move quickly enough for her tastes and turns briefly to ensure they’re following before continuing forward.

“I hope she is also aware that this is a fool’s errand,” Lha’ka adds, voice pitched to carry. The hallway through which she leads them is cramped and Poe’s at the back of it, stepping almost on the heel of Finn’s boots. “I travel the Hydian Way twice a standard month, spend a bit of time regrouping in the Vellenian Cluster and then go about my business anew, and I’ve never seen another Firstie ship anywhere along the way.”

“General Organa likes to be thorough,” Poe calls back. He tries not to let his disappointment show in his voice. If she’s right—and if she’s telling the truth—this may well be a waste of time.

“So she risks all of us by sending her most recognizable soldiers on a surveillance mission?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Finn replies, a deliberate lightness in his tone. “We do have the only two trained Jedi knights in the galaxy on our side. And one of them bested Kylo Ren in a fight. There’s not a trooper in the entire Order who wouldn’t know Rey’s face on sight for that fact alone.”

Poe swallows back bile, fights the sneer threatening to form on his lips. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the mangled mess Ren had made of Finn’s back, can imagine the long swipe of scar tissue, too thick and knotted for bacta treatments to heal fully. He’d rather not think of Kylo Ren. And he’d rather Finn didn’t treat what Ren had done like it’s a joke. And he’d absolutely love to forget the fact that had Rey not been there, Finn would’ve—

And Poe couldn’t have done anything to stop it, not from his X-wing. Not even if he’d been on the ground, too. It’s been years now and it still gnaws at him, chews away at his heart, sticks in his lungs when it gets brought up.

But before he can say anything, Lha’ka snorts and shakes her head. “They would recognize the buckethead traitor and his escapee best friend on sight, too.”

_I thought I was a hero pilot_ , Poe thinks, darkly amused at being downgraded to escapee best friend. _Not that she’s not right._

“No offense,” she adds, coughing, after a too long delay from which Finn’s only answer is silence. “It’s just strange to me is all. That you would do this.”

“Would you have let anyone else on your ship?” Finn asks. His head tips up as he scans the hallway, turns this way and that to take it all in. His hand hovers above the pistol hooked to his belt. His jacket wrinkles in that particular way that screams he’s on alert, stretched across his shoulders and under his arms, the rest of the fabric loose around his waist and lower back. At any other time, Poe might’ve said, _You need to learn how to relax, buddy_.

“Perhaps not,” she says, dubious. Though Poe can’t see her face, he suspects he knows just the look she’s got on it. The one tinged with suspicion and abashment, her cheeks purpling just the tiniest bit, her mouth turning down and thinning as she realizes she’s been caught and doesn’t like it.

He almost laughs, then, when Finn’s answer comes across not a little bit pissed off. “Then _perhaps_ that’s why the general risked sending us,” he says, voice crisp and sharp, unwilling to concede anything to Lha’ka either.

“You would know better than I do,” she replies, dubious. But she gives in, accepting and that’s something special. Lha’ka accepts little in Poe’s experience. Throwing out her arm, she stops Finn as they reach yet another hatch. Lifting her fist, she slams the side of it against the bulkhead. Waits. Slams it again. The hatch groans and slides open, slow and decrepit, revealing a room full of chairs, equipment—sensors, powered-down droids, a couple of disinterested deckhands. Exposed wires spill from a disturbing array of instruments.

One man, standing in the far corner, glares at Poe, eyebrow raised in challenge. A loyal lieutenant, maybe even her first mate. Poe would recognize the look anywhere. It’s the same one Poe wears when he has to watch General Organa take a risk with people she doesn’t know either.

She raises her arms, gesturing expansively as she faces them, a prideful smile stretching across her mouth. One that may or may not be well-deserved. Poe’d rather reserve judgment on that score. Some of the best ships of his acquaintance have unimpressive interiors. And exteriors. Doesn’t mean they don’t have it where it counts. “Welcome to the _Adritasis_ , gentlemen.

“Good luck finding what you’re looking for.”

*

As they stand on the bridge, peering into the empty space just outside of Eriadu’s orbit, Poe pushes aside concerns, so many bubbling through his thoughts that he doesn’t know what to do with them. But just as quickly as he pushes one down, another springs up in its place. What if they find something? Or worse: nothing? What if this is a trap? What if Lha’ka’s been a plant all along? All the while, he skirts the thoughts that drift too close to _some of our people are down there. They might still be alive_. Those, he doesn’t know how to quash.

Maybe they’ve made peace with knowing they would die alone, the Resistance unable to help them. Poe can’t lie and say he can’t empathize with that. But would they be able to make peace knowing they were dying while Poe stood within lightminutes of their location? So close he can almost feel Eriadu’s sun on his face, its air in his lungs. Could they make peace with that if they knew? Or would they blame him for it?

“Poe?” Finn asks, warm and concerned at his side. When Poe looks at him, he doesn’t look back, remains intent on the console in front of him as he punches in commands, flicks through readouts. Readout after readout that tells him what Poe can see for himself just by looking into cold, empty vacuum. There’s no one out there. After a moment he looks up and there’s just as much warmth and concern in his eyes as in his voice. Maybe more. Quiet, he says, “You know I—”

But he doesn’t get to finish the thought because the screech of proximity alarms drown out the sound of his voice. Poe’s console flashes red, the sensors flaring to life, belligerent and cranky with a plethora of new readings. “We’ve got incoming,” he says, steady. Whatever Finn thinks Poe knows is gonna have to wait.

“Could just be traders,” Finn reminds him. Like he needs reminding. Leaning hard against the console, he stretches toward the window, peering across the vast expanse of space. Waiting.

Lha’ka steps forward, slides first one arm across Poe’s shoulder, then the other around Finn’s. “They are remarkably off-schedule for traders, then,” she says, pointing at the screen. “No one arrives at this time.”

“You can’t know that,” Finn insists, forceful. Almost too forceful. “Ships are delayed. They—”

“No, look.” This time, her finger stabs at the screen on Poe’s console. “What civilian ship flies—”

Four ships then scream past the bridge. They _look_ like a civilian set-up from two vantage points now, visual and sensor readings both confirm it. A frigate, a pair of corvettes, and a freighter—all grungy and old and mostly harmless. If Poe didn’t know better, he’d assume Lha’ka didn’t know her route nearly as well as she thought she did.

Finn swears, loud, his fist slamming against the panel before him. The unexpectedness of the action startles Poe, distracts him from the connections spidering their way through his brain all the while. He’s seen that flight pattern before. In fact—

“First Order,” he says, leaning forward, too. Lha’ka’s arm slips off his shoulder. “Those are First Order pilots.”

“Yeah,” Finn answers. His hand shakes as he lifts it to wipe at the corner of his mouth.

For a moment, Poe can’t speak, his mind grinding to a halt. The alarms cease ringing, leaving behind a devastating silence in their wake. Phantom echoes blare in his ears for long seconds after.

A deep breath—he’d just needed a moment—then an answer.

“But this is good.” Poe grins, excitement pushing at his chest. Finally, he can _do_ something. He’s got a _reason_ to go down to that planet, get some answers, and save a few lives if he can manage it. “This is what we wanted.”

“I don’t follow,” Lha’ka replies, cold. Her eyes bore into his and she arches her eyebrow, unimpressed, and draws her arm from both his and Finn’s shoulders so she can cross them.

“This is our best shot at finding out what’s going on.” Flapping his hand to encompass the ships, now mere distant streaks. Every moment they waste is a moment whomever is onboard can just melt into the local scenery. Obviously they’re not intending to announce their presence. Not with ships like those. “We’ve got a buffer of Republic space around us. They’re the ones who have to be careful this time.” _I don’t have to pull any stupid shit just to get some intel_. “Hell, we can even call for reinforcements. We got ‘em. We just have to make sure we don’t lose them.”

Lha’ka turns toward Finn, but she doesn’t say anything. And neither does he.

But that’s okay. Poe’s got it all figured out, a plan spooling itself out across his thoughts. “We’re gonna have to impose on you a little bit, Lha Karani.”

“Is that so?”

“You just gotta get us into spaceport. We can take a shuttle down from there. Go in quiet.”

“No,” Finn says.

Poe’s body flashes hot and cold at the steel in Finn’s voice, but when he looks at Finn, Finn won’t look back. Going numb, Poe asks, “What do you mean ‘no?’”

“I mean no. That’s not our job here.”

“Finn, we can’t just sit here and _watch_. We’re never gonna get a better—”

“General Organa wanted confirmation that the First Order is in contact with someone on Eriadu. We’ve got that confirmation. We’re not prepared for this. We don’t have clean identification or weapons or a plan. We’re here to observe. We’re not here to participate.”

“If we leave, we’ll never find them. Not if they’re pretending they’re civilians. She could’ve sent anyone to watch the hyperlanes for activity. But she sent _us_. No. I know General Organa, she’d want—” Changing tacks, he looks at Lha’ka, answers to Finn’s concerns flying through his mind at instantaneous speeds. He knows this is the right thing to do. And he can—he _will_ —convince Finn. But first he has to convince Lha’ka. “Lha Karani, I’m gonna need you to get us down there. Finn’s not wrong about IDs. But you’ve got a relationship with the people here, not to mention an armory. I’ll have to use that.”

“She doesn’t need court-quality proof, Poe,” Finn says. He puts his hand on Poe’s arm, takes one careful step between him and Lha’ka. “Miss Sik, if you do this, consider access to Resistance-controlled hyperspace lanes revoked. Consider _all_ access in this sector revoked. You’ll have to travel to the far-side of the galaxy to find a route that won’t get you fined to hell and back. General Organa has more friends now in the Republic than they like to admit. It would get… inconvenient. For you.”

Lha’ka’s gaze shifts between Poe and Finn, back and forth. Poe’s never known her to be indecisive, but there’s a first time for everything, he supposes. This is a day of firsts. He wouldn’t have thought, for example, that Finn would ever _not_ want to help. _Don’t go there, Poe_ , he thinks, hammering the words home until they’re meaningless. _Finn has every right to follow orders_.

Poe knows he’s following orders. He knows. But that doesn’t stop his heart from twisting, his stomach from tightening, everythin else in him from shattering into a thousand sharp edges out to cut. _You can’t fault him for that. You follow orders all the time. Even the orders you don’t like. He never agreed to go this far to help you. You can’t hold an obligation that doesn’t exist against him._

But now he knows why Finn had been so quick to get him on Lha’ka’s ship, why the general hadn’t wanted to brief him herself.

The general hadn’t just shown a not uncharacteristic efficiency in briefing Finn and trusting him to accurately relay her wishes. No, she hadn’t wanted Poe to know what she’d had in mind for the mission.

She knows he would have objected.

_Son of a_ —

Were he not so determined, those things would hurt more. And his own naïveté would hurt more. But there are more important things happening here and already, now that the first shock has passed, numbness settles over him, clarity of purpose. There’ll be time for his _feelings_ later. Drawing in a deep breath, he puts on the tweaked Yavinian accent he’d used whenever he and Lha’ka had rendezvoused in the past. It’s a huge gamble and his stomach churns distantly in protest. She’ll either agree to help or toss him out an airlock for what he’s about to do. “Lha’ka, those are the bastards who charged your brother for being caught with a hundred credits’ worth of contraband…

Your contraband.” His mouth waters, bile burning acidic at the back of his throat. “Even within First Order territories, that should only carry a minor penalty, a few months of incarceration. But they decided to charge him as an enemy agent. Indefinite—”

“Poe,” Finn says, a warning accompanied by a sharp shake of his head. He’s right to be concerned though, because Lha’ka’s skin goes purple, her eyes flash. And Poe definitely, definitely sees the way her hands clench, the fists they form. Finn knows as well as Poe does where this is going even though Poe’s never told him the story. And, being the smarter man, Finn tries to stop him. A half-hearted hand on Poe’s shoulder. A few words telling Poe to stop.

He shifts on his feet, turns toward Lha’ka. “The Espionage Act is a real piece of—” Doesn’t think that maybe he should have turned away instead.

Pain blooms, white and searing, across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek, flaring hot as Lha’ka’s fist connects with his face. He’d seen it coming from a mile off, but it almost sends him sprawling anyway. Finn grabs hold of his elbow, shouting in protest, but Poe pulls out of his grip, lifts his hand to his cheek, instinctively mumbles that he’s okay, he’s fine. His fingertips come away coated in blood, the rich tang of iron clinging to the inside of his nostrils as he investigates the damage. It’s only then he notices the ring on her pinkie finger, a thick band with raised etchings rounding the outside of it. _Probably should have thought of that._

“Fuck you,” she replies, mouth screwed up in anger. Chest rising and falling, she twists, stomping toward her command chair, slightly raised in the center of the room. She leans forward, gripping the armrests. “Don’t ever speak of my brother.”

When Poe looks at Finn, he notices Finn’s jaw clenching, his eyes narrowed. Whether in disapproval of Lha’ka or Poe, Poe’s unsure. Maybe Finn has room in his heart to disapprove of both of them. Blinking back tears—or trying to, it’s a little bit difficult to keep them at bay when the bridge of your nose is throbbing, the corner of your eyes going all sensitive—Poe follows her, violently shrugging off Finn’s touch when Finn’s hand catches at his jacket.

“I need your help, Lha’ka.” He points at the viewport, at the twinkling emptiness of space, so close to his destination. “There are people down there who are facing the same charges your brother did or worse. Not all of them deserve it.” He hates to think of it in those terms, deserving and non-deserving. But since he knows at least one person is there on General Organa’s behalf… well, it’s not like the Resistance wouldn’t charge a First Order operative with espionage if they came across one.

“I thought you only cared about your blasted crystals,” she says, hollow.

Poe watches the curve of her back as she breathes, deep and even. He takes one more step forward. Relief washes over him when she doesn’t immediately lash out at him for the presumption. “I need to find out what I can about them, yes.” Not looking at Finn, he adds, “But I’m going to do everything I can to make sure those people are safe. I can promise you that.”

Lha’ka’s breath rattles as she straightens up, plants her fists on her hips. “Tell General Organa she can shove her hyperlane access.” Turning, with ice in her eyes, she crosses her arms. “It wasn’t so profitable anyway. Lesz. Dameron. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

He doesn’t. Not in the slightest, but he doesn’t doubt that this is what he has to do. “I know what I’m doing.”

Poe doesn’t dare look at Finn, who stands silent at his side, silent and still. Poe’s never—he doesn’t _do_ this, not this way, and whatever Finn is thinking about him, it can’t be good. But so long as he doesn’t look, he doesn’t have to confront whichever flavor of bad it is. That makes it bearable.

_Finn’s opinion of you can’t mean more than other people’s lives,_ he tells himself. _You’re doing this to complete the mission. He’ll forgive you once this is all over._

It doesn’t matter that it’s not the mission the general had sent him on. That it’s not the one Finn had expected him to comply with. There’s been too much complacency lately, too much helplessness on his part. This time, he’s going to get it right, even if he’s looking at a courtmartial at the end of it.

If Finn can’t get why he has to do this, so be it. If the general doesn’t, so be it. He has to do this regardless.

What’s the point of resisting the First Order if no one ever puts up a fight?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to again take this chance to warn for potentially delicate subject matter in this chapter. If you’d like to know in advance to what and whom it refers, please see the end notes [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5844127#chapter_9_endnotes) for the full details. It skirts close to two of the major archive warnings, but neither of them enough to require those tags in my opinion. Thank you for understanding.

“Poe,” Finn says, guilty, a little wavering. His hand slips into one of the pockets on his belt and Poe can only peer curiously at him as he fishes around inside. Whatever he retrieves fits neatly inside his closed fist, a fist he holds out to Poe. Before he opens it for Poe to see, he speaks again. Or, rather, he waits until Poe looks at him in the eyes and it’s only then that he speaks. “I told General Organa not to—” His breath huffs out of him, disgusted, and he shakes his head. His posture straightens. “No, that’s not how it happened.”

“How _what_ happened?” Poe jerks his chin toward Finn’s hand. His voice is a little hard and if he didn’t have places he needed to be, if the general hadn’t lied to him and, worse, brought Finn in on it, he’d be pissed at himself for that. Right now, though, he doesn’t have the time and he definitely doesn’t have the patience and he maybe, maybe doesn’t really want to hear what Finn has to say. There are more important places to be than here in Lha’ka’s ‘guest’ quarters… talking about this. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m worried about you. General Organa is worried about you. She doesn’t want you… going off. Like this.” He rolls his shoulders, sighs, and looks away. His throat clears, the sound gritty and forced. Poe thinks he sees a glint in Finn’s eye, but then Finn turns his head again and Poe can no longer tell anything except the particular shadow Finn’s lashes make against his cheeks. “I don’t either if I’m being honest. So when she asked me to stop you from doing anything rash, I didn’t—” He winces and finds it in himself to look Poe in the eye again. “—I said, ‘Okay,’ knowing full well how you’d take it.”

An impotent burst of anger flares inside of him, so insignificant compared to the rest of what he’s feeling that it register as little more than a minor nuisance. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them. _You don’t want to look defensive_. Widens his stance instead. _You’re not helping yourself here_. “And how have I taken it?”

Finn’s eyes narrow and his mouth thins. Whatever he’d intended to say is quickly overridden by an outburst of, “Poorly.” Spoken in haste and immediately regretted if the frown is anything to go by. “Listen, I’m trying to apologize here,” he adds. “For how that happened back there. If not for what happened. I’m still worried about you. I can’t help that. And I’m going to do what I can to stop you from acting rashly down there. I _won’t_ help that. You’re gonna have to get over it if you expect otherwise. But…”

He turns his hand, holds it out. Poe, whose first instinct is to fight back—with words, if nothing else—puts out his hand, too, palm up, and waits as a small, lightweight box falls into it. A box that, once opened, reveals unmolded synthflesh, a couple of pairs of contacts. Two ident chits. “General Organa didn’t want you going all Resistance spy over here and I can’t blame her. But I don’t want you going down there without every tool at your disposal—because I knew it was going to happen if the First Order showed up. Whether I wanted it or not. Whether I _argued_ with you about it or not. So. I might’ve made a stop before I came to get you.”

“Finn…”

Finn lifts his hand, closes his eyes, shakes his head. “Just—be smart, okay? We’re gonna do this right. You can’t go down there thinking you’re going to save everyone. You not making that promise to Lha Karani was a good start.”

“I know.” He hates himself for saying it, but… “Finn—”

“So, okay,” Finn says, hooking his thumb over his shoulder, turning slightly. “I’m going to… let someone know. What we’re doing. I’m thinking Master Skywalker and—”

“Finn!”

“What?”

“Thank you.” He stows the box and strides toward Finn, grabbing him and pulling him into a hug. It’s easier to push his anger aside with Finn warm and present beneath his arms. Even more when Finn settles as though he doesn’t have more important things to do. And when his hands settle on Poe’s waist, tapping lightly, it just makes Poe wish… well, better to focus on what he has than what he doesn’t.

Lips brushing Poe’s ear, Finn says, “Just don’t get into trouble down there. That’ll be good enough for me.”

“I’ll do my best.” _I don’t intend to get you into trouble. I hope you trust that if nothing else._

Finn shifts as though to push out of Poe’s hold, but Poe just hangs more tightly until Finn stills. “We have a job to do,” Finn says, a little weak, his argument shot through with uncertainty.

“I know.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine. I know what our priority is.” _Please, let that at least be true._ “And you’ll be there to keep me in line. We’ll get through it okay.” Letting go, he squeezes Finn’s bicep.

“Yeah,” Finn answers, eyes gleaming under the dingy lights. He blinks and that extra glint dissipates and he nods, defiant and confident all at once. “Yeah, we’ll get through.”

“When you come back, I’ll show you how to put this stuff on,” Poe answers, slapping himself on the hip just where he’s stowed the synthflesh. Having it there is more of a comfort than Poe had realized, his palm curving around the shape of it. They don’t have to go into this completely unprepared at least. And they’ll have some backup here soon.

As Finn retreats to send a comm back to base, Poe tries to tally up just how much he owes Finn and comes up empty, the result too astronomical to reasonably count. _Just get him and you through this,_ Poe thinks, a little desperate, _then you can start thinking about making it up to him._

*

“I guess this is it,” Finn says, staring straight ahead. He and Poe are standing behind Lha’ka’s chair on the bridge. She lounges, slouching as she keys the comm. Despite her lackadaisical manner, Poe notes the tension in her neck, the clenching of muscles under her jaw.

“ _Phelar Docking Authority, please transmit your transit credentials and ship’s registration,_ ” a crisp voice says, filling the bridge with tension at the delivery of his command. It sounds so official. More official than Poe had understood Lha’ka to willingly do business with.

Lha’ka flicks a switch and taps at the touchpad beneath her fingers. “Is that you, Codil?”

“ _Ma’am,_ ” he replies. Not an answer exactly, but not _not_ an answer. If she knows him… that’s all for the better. “ _Welcome back,_ Adritasis. _Please confirm your arrival with the authorization key given to you by—_ ”

“Authorization key?” she asks. “Codil, I have been given no authorization key. What is this?”

“ _New policy, ma’am. All incoming traffic now requires authorization from the Docking Authority. It would have been given to you by whichever contact you’re hauling cargo for._ ”

Poe’s heart flutters against his breastbone, in his ears, through his whole body. He goes suddenly hot and cold all over.

“Since when?”

Codil pauses, a hint of static filling the silence. “ _Last week, ma’am._ ”

Poe exchanges a look with Finn, Poe’s eyebrow arching with suspicion. _That’s some funny timing, don’t you think?_ He’s gotta give credit to Lha’ka though. Her voice remains steady.

“This job predates this policy. What am I supposed to do now?”

Flustered, Codil answers, “ _We can retroactively authorize a landing permit._ ”

“Do that.”

“ _I’ll need documentation asserting the veracity of—_ ”

“There is no documentation,” Lha’ka says, now barely controlling her impatience. Unlike Poe, she doesn’t seem to feel anything approaching fear at least. “Eriadu has never bound importers’ hands in this way before. Why would I have it if you’ve never needed it?”

“ _Then an inspector will need to board your vessel,_ ” Codil says, just the slightest bit testy himself.

Poe rounds the chair and shakes his head, his hand making a chopping motion near his neck. Finn’s eyes narrow and he cocks his head to the side and he steps toward the viewport, thoughtful. Lha’ka glares at Poe, sneers and mouths at him, _Calm down_.

He exaggerates his own silent response. _This isn’t gonna work_.

She flips her hand at him, flapping her fingers before bending toward her comm, shifting her body to completely shut Poe out. “This is highly unusual, Codil.”

“ _These are highly unusual times,_ Adritasis _._ ”

She bites her lip. “Very well. If you must search my ship over such a trifling delivery, be my guest.”

“ _Thank you,_ Adritasis _._ ”

“Oh, my absolute pleasure.” Her voice, cold, punctuates the conversation while the stabbing of her finger against the comm ends it completely. She swears in a language Poe doesn’t know, harsh and guttural in the way of curses across much of the universe are. “I’m never assisting the Resistance again.”

“I’m not entirely sure the Resistance will want your assistance after this,” Poe answers, dry. Pissed and not a little concerned, he paces the bridge, eyes finding Finn’s once he turns away from the viewport. “I know I don’t.”

“That’s funny, Commander Dameron. Were you not the man who once—”

“We don’t talk about that.” Poe’s face heats, not least because Lha’ka’s not wrong. _He’s_ pulled a lot of shit in his time. But this is different. He’s not usually the one getting shit pulled on him and definitely not when Finn’s life is on the line, too. And he doesn’t like it. Not. Even. A Little. Bit. “So what are we going to do about this?”

Determination sets in, Lha’ka’s eyes hardening. “ _We’re_ not doing anything. _I’m_ calling in a favor I’ve been holding onto for a very long time and have grown quite fond of keeping.” Her fingers fly over the comm again. “Now, please be quiet. If you can keep your righteous indignation in check for five minutes, that is.”

“I—”

“Would you rather my ship boarded without a plan in place?”

Poe looks toward Finn, then steps as close to Lha’ka as he dares, leans even closer. “I’m trusting you know what you’re doing,” he says, quiet.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since you came on board,” she replies, her tone like the stinging acid of a _slirtha_ lizard. Making a shooing gesture with her hands, she says, “Now why don’t you pester your betrothed instead of me, hmm?”

Poe’s eyebrow threatens to migrate into his hairline, but before he can deny it, her attention is already on her comm and the moment to speak up is lost. Betrothed. Force help him. That’s the last thing he needs to be thinking about when everything is falling to pieces around them.

*

“You think this is gonna work?” Finn asks, standing at parade rest behind Lha’ka’s left shoulder while Poe takes up a relaxed position on her right, all three of them before the main hatch awaiting docking procedures to commence. Each creak and thud of the hull sends Poe’s pulse rate ratcheting up into the stratosphere. Each creak and thud has not, so far, indicated the arrival of their inspector.

“I doubt it,” he snaps, rolling his shoulders and playing up his Yavinian accent. “Loosen up a little, will you? You scream military.”

Finn stares at him, stony and incredulous. “What am I supposed to be? You told me to keep it as close to the truth as I could. I can’t just…” He gestures at Poe. “I don’t even know what you’re doing.”

“Playing a part.” Poe absolutely doesn’t bristle, but it’s a near thing. And he certainly doesn’t get self-conscious because he hates this part the most. How the worst liar in the Resistance ever ended up telling lies for a living has never made sense to him as anything more than a sick joke. His hands fist at his side until he consciously decides to relax them.

“Yeah, well, so am I.” Finn points at himself. “Ex-military.”

“Just so you know,” Lha’ka says, deadpan, “I will happily throw you out the airlock, _Lesz_.”

“Fine.” Poe doesn’t deign to throw up his hands, but he _wants to_. Desperately. Almost as much as he’d like a pack of cigaras. The urge to smoke one makes his fingers twitch. “Are we doing this or what?”

“As soon as these _ghekalikers_ dock, sure,” she replies.

“Hey,” Finn says, reaching for Poe’s forearm and squeezing lightly. “We’ve done a lot of dangerous stuff in our time.”

“There is that.” He’s unable to hold back a smile and proves willing to do his best to look at the bright side—for Finn’s sake, if not his own. _This is what you get for pushing this so hard earlier_. He glances at his chronometer. Every moment they’re stuck up here…

_Don’t think about that. Worst comes to worst… at least you’ve accomplished your main objective_.

“So how did General Organa take your request?” he asks in a transparent bid to distract himself.

“She might’ve threatened our commissions,” Finn replies. “But she also said, ‘May the Force be with you’ and that her brother and Rey would be here within three hours. Good sign?”

“At least one of us here isn’t Force-sensitive.”

“It’s the thought that counts.” Finn tugs at his jacket. “Rey and Master Skywalker should be arriving anytime now at least.”

“I don’t—”

The floor and walls shake, a crashing thud resounding through Poe’s entire body as their guests’ ship docks. Poe throws out his hand and mutters a curse, swaying as the connection grinds and hisses away, turning two ships into one.

“You need to make some upgrades,” Poe says, hauling in a deep breath. When they’d gotten picked up, it hadn’t seemed anywhere near as violent.

“Shh,” Lha’ka answers as the hatch dilates, exposing two pairs of legs, one clad in high black boots, the other in white, armor flashing—

_Shit_.

Finn tenses beside him and every instinct Poe’s got tells him to shoot before—

“Ah,” the black-clad figure says, smiling politely, a cap perched atop his head. One which he doffs shortly, exposing a perfect side part and slicked back hair. He looks like a child. Just like every other damned First Order officer Poe’s ever had the displeasure of coming across. “I do apologize for this disruption in your delivery schedule, Captain Sik.”

He speaks so smoothly, Poe almost wants to be impressed. Instead, he thinks about how much he’d rather destroy the officer and the trooper both before they can harm Finn. He pays close attention to the latter, blaster held across his chest plate. Poe tells himself he’s not searching for an excuse.

He doesn’t dare look at Finn.

The officer steps forward, his shiny boots clacking smartly against the floor. “I’m just here to ensure no unauthorized contraband is snuck into sovereign Eriaduan space. I’m sure you understand.” His attention drifts to Finn and Poe, cursory. He speaks a distracted hello to them and returns his attention to Lha’ka.

Lha’ka turns slightly, enough for Poe to see the way her jaw clenches. “Last I checked, Eriadu thrived on contraband deliveries,” she says.

“But a new day has dawned, Captain. I can assure you the governor doesn’t intend to stymy the sale of goods on her planet and nor do I. This is all a mere formality. Until we have gotten to know one another.” He smiles, less polite, more pure, innocent in its way. Poe’s skin crawls to see it. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Lieutenant Mitaka.”

The sound of Mitaka’s boots covers—mostly—the sharp inhale of breathe from Finn. And at this point, Poe can’t help but look, sees Finn’s eyes are turned downward and his shoulders curved forward in a hunch. _You look like you’re hiding something_ , he thinks, wishing he did have the Force. Telepathy would be helpful right about now.

“Shall I show you to the cargo hold?” Lha’ka asks.

“Yes,” he replies, “though I’m hoping you can clear up an irregularity for me before we do.”

“By all means.”

“The ships’ registry has your crew at six individuals including yourself,” he says—and Poe’s heart sinks. He inches toward Finn, using Lha’ka’s bulk to block the trooper’s line of sight on his right hand. “The scan I performed on your ship shows eight life forms.”

“We picked up some new crew on this last trip.”

“Undoubtedly. That was my suspicion as well.” He waves his hand and reaches for a small, black box attached to his belt. “It’s of no import. I can easily add them to your file myself. A simple blood scan will—”

Blaster fire cuts through Mitaka’s words. A bright burst of light. Sizzling loud in Poe’s ears. He lunges at Finn, pulls him back before he realizes what he’s doing—or who’s been hit. “Finn!” he says, as Finn fights him. Pushes him aside so he can train his weapon on Mitaka. There’s a tussle as Lha’ka kicks out at the stormtrooper—or rather, the floor in front of the stormtrooper, where his rifle has fallen. It skitters across the floor and Poe bends to pick it up, still unsure just what’s happened here. He aims the rifle at the trooper, quiet despite the mangle recently made of his hand. Poe’s eyes now focus on Mitaka, who doesn’t appear to have a weapon, but…

“I—see,” Mitaka says, scrutinizing Finn far more closely than Poe’s comfortable with. “I… am willing to overlook the damage done to my companion here were you to cooperate. He has a notorious trigger finger and you have every right to protect your ship and crew. As a token of cooperation, I’d like to share with you a bit of information: I have reason to suspect you’re harboring enemies of Eriadu.” He narrows his eyes, attention still on Finn. “In fact, I feel confident this is the case.”

Lha’ka snorts. “You mean enemies of the First Order.”

His eyes flash and he raises his hands as Lha’ka draws her blaster, pointing it between his eyes. Instead of cowering, he tilts his chin up. “Yes, well. It seems they are one and the same now. You may not have noticed, but the Republic has grown skilled at losing the support of its allies. I can see to it that no harm comes to you or your legitimate crewmates. All you have to do is lower your weapon.”

The ‘and help me’ goes unspoken, but not unheard.

“I don’t think so.” And before Poe can so much as shout, mentally processing just what she’s doing only as she does it, she pulls the trigger, hitting Mitaka between the eyes—and then the stormtrooper, right through the black gorget protecting his neck. Mitaka falls immediately, eyes wide and startled and dead, but the trooper reels back, gurgling as he hits the wall and slides down.

Numbness settles over Poe, a hush descending, the only sound the hiss of the trooper’s labored breathing. Lha’ka walks over and kicks at his side. “Did you know they were here?”

A choked sound is the only answer she receives.

“I can make this easy for you.” She raises her weapon, her aim steady.

Another choked sound.

“Too bad.” Kicking at his side, she steps around him and turns to face Poe and Finn. She nods at Finn. “That was some nice shooting.”

Poe hadn’t seen Finn take a shot. “Finn?”

But Finn doesn’t answer him. Instead, he speaks to Lha’ka, no longer hunching over to make himself inconspicuous. “You just made it a whole hell of a lot harder to get us onto that planet.”

“I saved your lives,” she answers, unconcerned. “You might not look like those pretty wanted posters floating around of you, but you weren’t going to fool a blood scan.”

“We could’ve…” But Finn’s assertion is weak, at best. Huffing, he paces the length of room and fully avoids looking at the pair of bodies. Poe watches as his features harden, a decision getting made somewhere Poe can’t see. “Poe, are you okay?”

“What?” Poe asks, dragged forcibly back to the conversation, the afterimage of the stormtrooper’s booted foot lingering in his mind. He hadn’t noticed his attention drifting. “Yes. Yeah, I’m… fine.” He shakes his head, pushing other responses from his mind. This is what happens in war. Someone had to do something. “So what are we going to do?”

Finn and Lha’ka exchange a nod, grim understanding passing between them.

“We’ve got two First Order uniforms and a First Order ship,” Finn says. “And soon, four people the First Order could be looking for out here.”

Poe’s mind clicks away, slow at first, churning through Finn’s words to search for the pieces that make sense. And all at once… “You want us to infiltrate the Death Star.”

Finn shrugs. “If it worked for Han Solo…”

“…it could work for us.”

Tilting his head, dubious, Finn says, “Could get us on the planet at least.” He eyes Poe. “If that’s really what we want to do.”

“There’s something going on down there,” Poe says, maybe now trying to convince himself of the truth of that. He hadn’t gone into this expecting to kill anyone. Not so soon anyway. And not so—abruptly. “ _Someone_ has to find out what it is. And we’re as perfectly positioned as anyone can be to find out.” He doesn’t let himself think about the reason why they’re so perfectly positioned, the suddenness of it, the—

“It could be a trap,” Finn reminds him. As though any of them needs reminding.

_Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second_. “Since we know that much, we’ll be able to spring it.”

“So, all right, then. We impersonate First Order personnel, spring a First Order trap, figure out what these damned crystals have to do with Eriadu, and make sure we all get out of this in one piece. Sounds doable. I see nothing wrong with this plan at all.”

“When you make it sound this easy…” Poe claps Finn on the shoulder, failing to grasp the levity he reaches for, feeling everything as though through bacta. Everything is distant, almost gummy, and slow moving, so different from how he normally feels after a firefight. _Get it together. You’ve got a job to do._ “How can we do anything else?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: minor character death of a character from The Force Awakens and a display of violence that is not graphically described, but is slightly less canon-typical than other instances of violence in the fic so far.


	10. Chapter 10

Poe’s seen a lot of dead stormtroopers before. He’s made a lot of dead stormtroopers, too, from up close to far away and every distance in-between. He knows the smell of burnt flesh and the ozone-sharp tang of blaster fire. It never bothered him before, but something about this one slumped against the wall, the tight quarters, the careless way Lha’ka leans against the far wall, mouth parted to, presumably, limit the impact of the stench as she breathes. Maybe it should have bothered him.

Finn crouching over the white-clad form? That bothers him. His fingers hook beneath the helmet, twisting it this way and that, the thing finally freeing to expose the man’s face, slender and youthful, his unruly mop of straw-blond hair mussed by the helmet. That bothers him, too.

_What’s your name_ , he thinks instinctively before recoiling from that line of thought.

But the thing that really gets to him, that pierces him like a sliver of metal, a small and irritating thing that, if— _when_ —ignored becomes a big and painful thing, is the look of concentration on Finn’s face, indifferent and professional and closed off. Poe can’t read it, has no idea what Finn’s feeling—if he’s feeling anything. Whether Poe should step in or step aside, he just doesn’t _know_. And that bothers him most of all.

“Finn,” he says, surprising himself with an even tone of voice, “why don’t I do this?” Might not be the right call here, but he’s got to do something. And he doesn’t think offering to do this can hurt anything. That makes it safe.

“Huh?” Finn peers up, eyes narrowing. His gaze follows Poe as Poe squats next to him, remains laser-focused the whole way down.

“I’ll get this guy,” Poe says, jerking his head toward Lieutenant—whoever. Mitaka. “Why don’t you take him?”

“Um…” Finn’s attention flicks that direction and then back to Poe’s face. His eyebrow arches, but he nods. “Sure.” He hands over the helmet. “Knock yourself out.”

Poe’s hand doesn’t shake as he sets the helmet aside, he notes, distantly pleased. It doesn’t shake as he removes the damaged gorget, his fingers avoiding the charred wound made of the man’s throat, a bloodless, burned mess. His nails catch on the clasps of the chest piece and though he thinks he’s found all of them, the armor doesn’t budge when he pulls.

“There’s one under the armpit,” Finn says, not even bothering to look up from where he’s busily unsnapping Mitaka’s jacket.

Poe feels around the unforgiving armhole, finds the small, box-like protuberance. It clicks under his touch, the chest piece sliding a couple of inches off-center. “Thanks.”

After a long pause, Finn says, “No problem.”

After that, it goes easily enough, white plastoid composite piling up at Poe’s side until the only thing left on the guy is his black undershirt and pants. Though Poe notes thick muscles and the bulk associated with hard physical training, he’s almost relieved to see that beneath that, there is a frame too slender to comfortably allow Finn to adopt his armor.

If Poe catches Finn’s attention drifting to inspect the stormtrooper’s body, he doesn’t acknowledge it. And neither does Finn.

“What are we gonna do with the…?” Poe asks, gesturing at the—problem.

“I will take care of them,” Lha’ka says, grim, as though this particular brand of work is not unfamiliar to her. Frankly, Poe doesn’t want to know. And he doesn’t have the right to judge. But that doesn’t matter. She must sense something of his reticence because she glares at him, her arms crossing over her chest. “You’d think you’ve never done a distasteful thing in your life, Dameron. I thought they bred you Resistance-types a little tougher than that.”

Poe’s hands tighten into fists. In a hurry to push himself to his feet, anger pulsing hot under his skin, he knocks the stacked pile of armor over, the pieces clattering across the floor. “We aren’t _bred_ to be anything,” Poe says, kicking at a piece that had fallen afoul of his boot. It skitters ahead of Poe as he strides toward Lha’ka; he toes it forcefully aside as it gets in his way again. “And you sure as hell don’t know a thing about Resistance-types.”

“Poe,” Finn says, climbing to his feet with more restraint than Poe’d shown in performing the same action. He steps over the neat stack he’s made of Mitaka’s clothing, intent, already reaching for Poe. “She’s just trying to get to you.”

“What I’m trying to do is none of your business,” Lha’ka replies, words spit out like poison. “What I’d like to do is get you off my ship and get as far away from this system as possible.”

“That,” Finn says, icy, features growing sharp with annoyance, “can be arranged.”

“He’s going to get you killed,” she insists, throwing her arm in Poe’s direction. Poe flinches even though he’s out of her range. And that just makes her nod at him, damning him with a sneer for that involuntary action. Her attention turns to Finn and the look on her face says it all. _Look at him. He’s lost it._

Poe only manages one more step forward before Finn lunges for him, pulling at his jacket and swinging him around. “Don’t listen to her,” he says, but the _way_ he says it, Poe hears his uncertainty. Poe’s stomach twists itself into a hard knot. Finn’s hands, warm, a little sweaty, settles on Poe’s jaw, forcing Poe to look at him. His fingers tap lightly until he does. “Hey. Listen to me. We’ve got a better plan now than the one we started with. We’ve got back up.” He reaches down and slaps at Poe’s chest with the back of his hand, his palm then settling against Poe’s heart. “And there’s no one better at improvising under weird circumstances than you.”

Grounded by Finn’s touch, Poe tries to smile. “I think Rey’s got me beat on that score, bud.”

“Well, obviously,” Finn replies, quick and encouraging, a pleasant smile gracing his mouth, so at ease it can’t be real. “But counting her doesn’t seem fair to the rest of us, does it?”

Poe’s attention turns back toward Lha’ka as she scoffs, the sound harsh, louder than it ought to be.

“Poe!” Finn’s thumb presses against his chin. “Don’t prove her point for her.” _Don’t make me scrub this mission_ , his eyes seem to say. _We’re too far into this now_.

The entirety of Poe’s attention shrinks down to Finn’s touch. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good,” Finn says, nodding. “That’s good. Now let’s see this through, huh?”

“Sure,” Poe replies. Finn wants him to do that? He can do that. “Sure, yeah. Let’s see this thing through.”

*

Poe’s comm beeps as he struggles with the chest piece, fumbling the unwieldy chunk of plastoid as he tugs the comm from the standard issue FO trousers he’d taken. They’re more comfortable than he’d have expected. And it’s both surprising and a little creepy to know that. “Dameron,” he says, tucking the wide, white piece of junk under his arm, the edges digging into his skin through the tight black shirt he’ll soon be covering with said piece of junk.

“Poe!” Rey says, voice bright with excitement and confusion. He can almost see the way she might be squinting at the viewport, maybe leaning toward it as she tries to figure out what’s going on. “We’re, uh… here.”

“Yeah?” Poe asks, eyes on Finn as Finn flexes and twists in the lieutenant’s uniform. The jacket’s a tight fit on him, snug across the shoulders, a little uncomfortable looking—probably for a lot of reasons. Still, he seems to treat it like he treats most things these days: with an equanimity Poe finds enviable. “Took you long enough.”

“Is that why there’s already a ship docked?” she asks, feigning hurt. “You couldn’t wait for us?”

“You know how it is,” Poe replies, drawing out the words. He points at Lha’ka and then points at the door, mouthing, _we need another bay_. She goes, thank the Force, without an argument. “One thing leads to another and suddenly there’s…”

“A party.”

“Yeah, sure.” Poe nods, realizing only belatedly that she can’t see it. “That’s what this is. A party.” _A party with some nasty, uninvited guests._

“Is everything okay? You sound a little strange.”

“Sure,” he says as Finn strides toward him, taking the chest piece from under his arm and gesturing for him to hold his arms out. Poe’s not sure how he’s supposed to do that with his comm in his hand, but he complies. Sort of. He lifts both arms anyway, though one remains bent as he tries to crane his neck toward the comm. “We’re all good in here.”

Finn holds the chest piece up to Poe’s torso and taps on it. “Hold this,” he says, quiet. Then, louder, leaning toward Poe’s comm, “Hey, Rey. We’re a little busy here, but Captain Sik’s opening up another docking bay for you.”

“Right,” Rey says. “Ah, there. I see it. It’ll just be a minute.”

“Thanks,” Finn says, warm as Rey cuts the connection. Even warmer, he says to Poe, “Let’s get this taken care of, huh?”

Poe doesn’t know what to say, so he remains silent, tracking Finn as he retrieves the back piece. And he’s not sure what he’s supposed to feel. Sad, he supposes, that Finn’s being dragged back—even if only temporarily—to the life he’d escaped. But it seems like he’s got both more than that and less inside of him, an emptiness he desperately wants to fill with something: motion, action, doesn’t much matter. Words, even, though those won’t come to him. While Finn’s back is turned, he stares after him and feels a little better, but only because most of the time, Finn just being around makes him feel better. As soon as Finn spins on those First Order boots he’s stuffed his feet into, Poe’s gaze snaps to the wall, the relief lost.

“I know it’s uncomfortable,” Finn says, reaching his side, pressing the unforgiving plastoid against Poe’s back. The piece snicks into place along the seams, locking him in as Finn snaps one, two, eight clamps into place. “You can let go now.”

Poe does, stomach swooping with nausea as it stays in place. He’s not often given to claustrophobia; growing up in cockpits tends to kill the impulse, but clearly that’s just because he hasn’t tried hard enough to find the right sort of confining space. Swallowing, he taps at the armor and considers asking Finn to give him a minute before he tries to encase his arms and legs, too. Tugging at the gorget instead, he thanks his lucky stars the other guy’d had a wider neck than him. He’s not sure he’d be able to stand the thing if it was any tighter around his own.

“How are you so…?” The question blurts from Poe’s mouth of its own accord, only slowed halfway through by Poe’s brain catching up to it. Finn’s trying to get the gauntlets around his forearm, but in the middle of doing so, he stills, freezing in place.

“So what?” he asks, voice light—less pleasant than cagey, if not outright deceptive.

“Nothing,” Poe says, aching in a way that can’t be fixed through stretches or painkillers or a heating pad. He shouldn’t have started to ask that question, even if he’d meant to be admiring. _How are you so calm about all this?_ It’s not a fair question.

When he pulls out of Finn’s grasp, Finn doesn’t stop him.

He figures out the rest of the armor himself, pulling the ragged edges of his patience back together as each piece locks into place around his legs and arms. By the time he’s done, Finn heading into the hallway ahead of him, he thinks he’s ready. Bending awkwardly, he scoops up the helmet from the floor and holds it against his side, the thing threatening to fall from his grip as it catches and slips against the unfamiliar equipment strapped to him, belts and edges and all sorts of things he’s not used. Even the way he walks feels different.

Maybe he’s ready anyway.

Hopefully. Hopefully he’s ready.

He doesn’t have a lot of time to figure it out if he’s not.

“Hey,” Finn says, maybe sensing Poe’s turmoil. He’s pretty good at intuiting Poe’s moods. “We’re gonna be okay.”

*

“Oh,” Rey says, blinking, her forward progress stalled by the realization that she’s about to run into First Order underlings. It’s an instinctual reaction, one she’s quicker to set aside than Poe had been. “Hi,” she adds, pushing at a few stray hairs, turning toward Luke, who’s still standing in the hatch, peering curiously at both Poe and Finn from over her shoulder.

His answer, when it comes, is slow. “Run into problems?” he asks, watching Poe in particular.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Finn replies.

“Obviously,” Luke says, scratching at his beard. “I take it going in unnoticed is out.”

“Can’t imagine what gave you that idea,” Poe mutters. Louder, thumb whipping back and forth between himself and Finn, “Yeah, we’ve got a plan B now.”

“Uh huh.” His gaze shifts to Lha’ka, suspicious, though he continues to speak to Poe directly. “I get the feeling you’re a few letters further down the alphabet than that by now.”

The muscles around Poe’s mouth tighten as he does everything in his power to keep from lashing out at the man. “We did a bit of fine-tuning along the way,” he says, shrugging. “So what?” He turns toward Lha’ka and nods. _No hard feelings_ , he thinks. Or tries to. It’s a little hard still, anger sparking, everything an irritant right now. She nods back, getting the message Poe intends instead of using against him the one he doesn’t, the one that might get him into another fight if they both let it.

She crosses her arms. “Get a few more of those bastards for me, huh?” she asks, daring him to do anything besides rain down hell.

He nods, says something appropriately inspiring, but he has no idea what it is after the fact, mind already on the rest of the mission ahead and the parts of it behind them. Lha’ka is—she’ll do what she’s going to do and always has. He just needs to put her out of his mind. He might’ve made all the same moves she had were their positions reversed. And she’d still done them a huge favor and put her ship at risk. A ship that’s still at risk in point of fact.

Along, now, with two Resistance ships they don’t need on this mission, but will probably be needed in the future. They’re not exactly sitting on a surplus of ‘em back home. He opens his mouth to speak again.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, anticipating him somehow. Or maybe he’s just that obvious. “I’ll get them back to Resistance territory.”

“Okay.”

“Good luck.”

“Yeah,” Poe says, sighing, the weight of expectation settling in, pushing against him in new and uncomfortable ways. “We’re gonna need it.” A pause as he swallows his pride and other things. And because he can’t bring himself to say anything more: “Thanks, Lha’ka.”

*

“So let me get this straight,” Rey says, cornering Finn in the cockpit of the awkward little freighter Mitaka and that stormtrooper had flown over. Ostensibly, Poe’s at the helm, preparing for launch, Luke in the co-pilot’s seat, the both of them familiarizing themselves with the controls. But Poe’s already got it covered, so ninety percent of his attention’s on Rey and Finn. “You’re going to impersonate First Order officers. _We’re_ impersonating prisoners and—what? That’s supposed to work?”

“It’s supposed to get us on the ground,” Finn replies.

“It’ll work,” Luke says.

“You don’t know that,” Rey says.

Luke spins his chair, looks up at Rey. Calm, he says again, “It’ll work.”

When Luke turns back around, Poe leans toward him. “You sound pretty confident there, Skywalker. You know something I don’t?”

“I know a lot of things you don’t,” Luke says, quiet. “But speaking from experience, the more _meelok_ -headed the scheme, the better the results in the end.”

“Well,” Poe says, back straightening, eyes moving back to the viewport and the dark, star-filled vacuum outside, “isn’t that comforting?”

“It should be.”

“I’ll tell you truthfully—and I say this with every measure of respect—it’s not.”

Luke smiles and it’s painfully sympathetic. Even to a man without an ounce of Force sensitivity, it’s too much, burns too brightly with feeling. So much so that he has to clear his throat to rid himself of the lump forming there and blink to clear the prickling from his eyes. There’s not a single universe out there in which Poe would want to be caught dead crying in front of Luke Skywalker—especially not because he’d shown a special _kindness_ to Poe.

That’s just. It’s not happening. That’s not how their relationship _is_.

Mashing buttons on the console in front of him, Poe frowns, thoughts racing like dogs chasing after a stick, each barreling into the others, heedless of anything except the dirty, pointless goal of catching something.

“Do you want,” Luke begins to—

“No,” Poe responds, forceful, stabs at the console to punctuate his point.

—ask.

He lifts his hands, put upon. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Poe pushes another button. “Good.”

“You do know I can help with that, right?” Luke asks, nodding at the dash in front of them. The caution in Luke’s eyes seems to say, _you’re not the only one who can figure out how to fly a ship_. Or maybe, _I don’t want you at the controls when I die_. It’s what Poe would think if he were Luke.

“Buddy,” Poe says, a hint of laughter darkening in his voice, “you _want_ me focused on this right now.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.” To Finn and Rey, he says, “Hang onto something back there.” He punches one final button, the ship detaching from the _Adritasis_ with a lurch. Gently, he engages the thrusters, just a little bit, just enough to push the ship away from the _Adritasis’s_ hull. From out here, you’d never guess what had gone on in there, everything serene and normal, the stars unchanged by the actions of a few individuals. That’s comforting in its way.

“Well,” Luke answers, philosophical, staring out at the scene before them. “Kriff.”

Poe hums, non-committal. _Kriff is right._ Even though kriff is the least of the words Poe could use to describe this situation.

As they drift, Lha’ka’s ship begins to fill the viewport. It, too, looks unaffected by recent events. This is less comforting to Poe somehow.

“Think of it this way,” Luke adds—after he’s had a chance to mull over Poe’s dourness, Poe supposes. “At least you’ll have one hell of a story to tell over drinks when this thing’s all over with.”

“Oh good.” He grabs hold of the controls as they get enough distance between them and the _Adritasis_. “Something to look forward to. You really know how to cheer a guy up.” 

“Don’t let it get out,” Luke replies, deadpan.

“I won’t.” Poe plucks at a couple of switches, engaging sublights. “There’s no one in the galaxy who’d believe me anyway.”


End file.
